


Whatever It Is

by theproblematique



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Did I mention angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Morbid Humor, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Unhealthy Relationships, and pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproblematique/pseuds/theproblematique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Sam and Dean get sent to the year 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my dear alienass, who is both a lover and co-conspirator of this idea and helped plot much of it.  
> 

 

\- 1 -

 

The motel hadn't been about to win any comfort awards or anything, but Dean definitely remembers the existence of a freakin' _mattress_.

Bedsprings creak and groan in a rusted accompaniment to his shifting weight, momentary disorientation quickly leading to all-out confusion as he registers that this is not the room he fell asleep in. He sits up, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the piercing grey light of morning. A quick catalogue of his surroundings reveals several startling facts:

The window is a hole--there is no actual window.

The atmosphere reeks of decay, and looks like it too; a layer of dust covers every surface. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls and the bedside table is three-legged and rotted through.

He’s not alone. Someone is lying next to him, and it's not just anyone.

It's Sam.

“Dean?”

Sam is stretching and blinking himself awake, one huge hand coming up to rub at his eyes.

“What...?”

Dean shifts a little to the side so the dip of the maxed-out bedframe isn’t pushing them together. He has no fucking clue ‘what’, but whatever the hell is going on it brought his brother close to him immediately after Dean told him they had to stay apart. ‘What’ stinks of fucking _angels_.

“Where are we?”

He’s about to reply with the truth; he doesn’t know, this is yet another occasion of them being tossed about in the tide of events bigger and badder than them, out of their fucking control as usual—and then he takes a second look at the strips of wallpaper.

The same wallpaper.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” he groans.

This is definitely not the room he fell asleep in... except that’s exactly what it is. Somehow, this is the crappy motel room he rented for the night only it looks like it’s been abandoned for _years_.

“What?” Sam asks urgently, sitting up as well and eliciting a shrill creaking from the bedsprings that were never meant to hold two large dudes like them. Dean takes that as his cue to get up off the framework and walk over to the wall, double-checking to confirm his suspicion.

“Dean, what is it? Where are we?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, Sam, but...” Dean laughs without humor, hand rubbing at the top of his head. This would be a potential comedy goldmine in any other circumstances. “The question,” he intones tiredly. “Isn’t where... but _when_.”

 

\- 2 -

 

Sam’s heart is still thundering in his chest, still recovering from Dean’s sudden and unexpected presence even as his brother’s actual words start to register.

“ _When_?”

Dean walks over to the gaping hole that probably used to be the window. “This is the motel room I was crashing in. I told Cas I needed a couple of hours of sleep and...” he trails off, lifting a hand to brace himself on the jagged frame. “Jesus.”

Sam quickly gets up and crosses the space between them in a couple of strides, to stand next to (but not overly near) his brother.

The city is a wasteland. As in it looks like an abandoned, completely destroyed skeleton of what it used to be; buildings in clear ruin and rusted cars in haphazard pile-ups. It looks like the set of a disaster movie. There are even plants cracking the sidewalks open; the time it would take for a street to get like this is _years_.

He gets why Dean said when, but he’d assumed Dean meant the _past_. This isn’t anywhere on the Earth they’ve ever known; this is something else, something new.

The future.

“D’you think... Lucifer...”

“You said he’s barely holding on to the vessel he’s got, right? Does he even have the juice to pull something like this off?”

Sam thinks he probably does, but if this is some ploy to get him to say ‘yes’ it’s much more convoluted than the Devil’s style has been so far. So maybe it’s the other guys.

“Angels, then?’

Dean nods.

“Is this... the apocalypse?”

“You’re askin’ like I know any more than you.”

“But... if it’s angels, why am I here? They hate me.”

Before answering, Dean deliberately looks away from Sam and back out of the window. “Any chance you crashed the party yourself?”

“What?"

"You know..." still not meeting his eyes, Dean shrugs defensively. "If the angels sent me here and you followed me with your own mojo."

And that... that _hurts_.

"Dean, I’d never... You told me ‘no’, remember? _We’re weaker together_?” The words are hard to get out, taste like a putrid lie in his mouth. “I wouldn’t come after you once you told me ‘no’.”

“Well, if they want us to be the rubbers in their sword-fight I guess it makes sense that this little life-lesson includes the both of us.”

Sam thinks Dean is really taking the vessel-condom metaphor a little far.

“At least I’m not in suspenders this time.” Dean adds, and rubs his hands together. “And we got to keep our memories for a change. Much appreciated!" This he says to the ceiling, thick sarcasm lacing his voice. "C’mon Sam, let’s go figure out what the hell is going on. Looks like the Walking Dead out there.”

A flash of infected red eyes and a mouth dripping with gore makes Sam flinch. It feels like a premonition, like Dean’s tempting fate just by saying it.

 

\- 3 –

 

The streets are empty of people, and they can’t find signs of life at all... recent life, anyway. It’s unkempt, a mess, and eerie as fuck.

And then Sam’s steps conspicuously slow to a stop.

“...Dean.”

Dean had been checking out a tragically sweet Rolls with what looks like a ferret’s nest in the back seat, but he quickly turns to follow his brother’s gaze.

Sam’s staring at a graffitied wall to their left, only partially visible at the end of a darkened alleyway. Standing out amongst the mess is the cut-off end of a word painted in large letters, the obvious color of dried blood, and it reads:

-ATOAN

Dean’s stomach drops.

He doesn’t need to see the rest of it around the corner, he knows what it says. What this means.

“We gotta get out of here.” Sam mutters. “Now.”

“And go where?” Dean growls, but he’s backing away as he says it, trying to remember if the city outskirts are far from here and in which direction they need to start running.

Sam doesn’t answer for a long moment, but instead of getting the hell back the idiot is leaning forward, carefully stepping around the fucked up sidewalk to squint at something presumably at the end of the street.

“Sam? What do your elf-eyes—“

“Shut up.” An arm is thrust out in Dean's direction as Sam takes another slower, quieter step forward.

And then Dean hears it too. A shuffling sound, a rattling like somebody is going through the garbage a few blocks down, only audible because of the eerie quiet. Could just be a survivor. Some sort of non-threat. Maybe.

That's never been their experience, though.

“Stray dog, for fucking once in our lives...?" he mutters, but he's turning around so they stand back to back and keeps an eye out to cover the opposite side.

“I don't think...”

The sound stops.

Dean misses it instantly, because somehow the quiet is much, much worse.

"Oh."

"What?" he can't turn to see for himself, can't leave Sam's back unprotected. "Sam?"

"It's not a dog, Dean." Something in Sam’s voice makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, and he doesn’t even have time to check out what caused it before his brother is grabbing his sleeve, tugging brusquely so Dean stumbles after him. "Definitely not a dog!"

“Wh—“

He throws a look over his shoulder but barely catches a flash of movement not far behind, trusts Sam’s judgement when it’s time to run.

 _Croatoan_. This city is already dead.

They sprint down the cracked asphalt, jump over debris and car-parts and one landing in particular makes a crunching noise that tells Dean all he needs to know about how long there have been bodies lying in the middle of the street.

“Left!” Dean snaps at Sam, who turns accordingly instead of going towards the _second_ ominous noise, this time to their right. A glance is all it takes for Dean to confirm that there are a bunch of bodies coming at them from the side as well; limbs running into each other and tripping over their own legs but fast and never stopping, clothes in rags and dirty with blood and gore and, well... dirt, he supposes. Nasty sight.

A narrow alleyway cuts between a liquor store and a decrepit Starbucks and they go right in. Ahead of him, Sam’s long legs make it hard to keep up—hard, but not impossible, because Dean is a deceptively good sprinter and he’s bringing up the rear by choice. The threat is behind them therefore he's between it and his brother.

“ _No_ ,” Sam gasps, abruptly skidding to a stop and throwing out an arm that catches Dean full-on in the solar plexus, not hard enough to stop them colliding painfully. Dean doesn’t need to know what exactly made his brother stop running away from the bloodthirsty infected zombies. It's bad enough that it got Sam to stop trying to get away from _bloodthirsty infected zombies_ ; either it’s more zombies or it’s something worse, and _now_ _what_?

“Fire escape?” he pants, craning his neck and furiously checking for himself, but there doesn’t seem to be one here and all they’ve got is a bunch of overflowing trashcans with ill-fitting lids that will make for a terrible fighting ground.

"I..." Sam pats his pockets, the back of his jeans, but it seems that he's not packing. Of course not, he'd only just changed his mind about going back to the civilian life.

Dean deftly takes the knife out of his ankle guard but that's all he's got. Gun was under his pillow and it didn't make the trip.

"Hop up, c'mon," he instructs, but before either of them can actually do it the alleyway gets flooded by a loud rattling machine-gun noise. Bullets from what looks to be--shit, there's an actual machine-gun mounted on a big-ass truck at the far end on Sam's side.

"Sammy, duck!"

 

\- 4 –

 

Sam obeys the order without question, just in time for a spray of bullets to burst through the air he'd been occupying and hit the infected people behind Dean.

"What the...?"

He feels Dean's hand grip the back of his shirt and wrench him down lower, making him a smaller target and trying--dammit, trying to shield him with his own body which is _not_ gonna happen.

Sam kicks his brother's ankle out from under him, toppling him over and thus making it possible to throw himself onto Dean. Dean squirms and bucks and swears and fights him tooth and nail, and they end up quasi-wrestling right there on the putrid sidewalk while infected blood rains over them until the gunfire stops.

"Hey! You two!"

Dean gives a huge heave and manages to dislodge Sam from his position, finally squirreling out from under him and quickly getting to his feet. "Don't shoot!" He shouts, hands raised. "We're not infected!"

Sam hurriedly scrambles to a stand as well, hands in the air.

"Don't move and I'll have no reason to shoot!" a voice returns. The red mist hasn't dissipated enough for Sam to see more than their outlines but it sounds like their rescuers can see him and Dean just fine.

"You got it," Dean calls back. "But ain't nothing here for you to worry about, we promise. No cannibalism whatsoever." He tosses his head to the side. "Thinking of going vegan after this, actually--"

A sudden gust of wind clears the air, like a bloody curtain being pulled aside.

The truck is military issue, cam-paint with rusty red streaks on its sides. Sam still can't get a good look at the person behind the machine gun mounted on the roof (it remains pointed right at them and hides them from view) but he can finally make out the two on the ground. Both have semis braced against their hips, a defensive crouch helping aim the barrels at the Winchesters as well.

And then the figure on the right straightens up.

Sam’s jaw drops.

“What is this?” The one keeping her stance (and her cool) is a tall woman with a high ponytail and dark brown skin.

The guy next to her has lowered his weapon and he looks exactly like... no. No way.

"What the fuck, Dean?" the woman spits, shifting her stance slightly and aiming straight for Sam's brother. Only she isn't talking to her target; she's talking to the man beside her.

The man who looks like a perfect replica of Dean.

He's standing all the way on the other side of the pile of bodies, but there's no mistaking that face, the body... it's Dean--or a man identical to Dean, wearing a dirty military jacket and a thigh holster over his dusty jeans. Unlike the real Dean, however, this one's arms hang limply by his sides.

And he’s staring at Sam with pure, naked horror.

"Shifter?" the woman says, glancing at her companion quickly upon getting no response. "Dean. You want him taken out?"

But the man--Dean, the other Dean--doesn't answer her. He also hasn't looked away from Sam for one second, and Sam has to wonder whether he's even registered that there's a clone of him standing a few feet away.

"Well, this can't be good," the real Dean murmurs. "Did we just Back to the Future this or what?"

"Dean," the woman says again, clearly impatient. "We have to get out of here now. Either we drop them or we take them in, which one is it?"

"We come in peace," Sam calls out. The way the other Dean is looking at him is really starting to become unnerving. "If you'll just give us a chance to explain--"

"Shut up!" the woman snaps. And then, when the Dean beside her still fails to react in any visible way, she lashes out and kicks him in the shin. "Hey. Get it the fuck together." Her voice is lower, clearly meant only for him, but it carries and resonates in the narrow space. "Do we kill the shifter or interrogate it in case—are you listening to me?"

The obvious answer seems to be ‘no’. Sam feels trapped by his gaze, its intensity petrifying. He can’t even tell whether it’s in a positive or a negative way, there’s just something basilisk-like about this new Dean’s stare, something that could kill.

"Why don't y'all put down your guns and we can talk this out," Dean (the real one) calls, most irritating charming smile in place.

That finally seems to make his presence register with his doppelganger. Other-Dean looks away from Sam for the first time, even though it seems to take visible effort.

“Surprisingly,” the real Dean continues. “There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

“What _is_ ‘this’?” the woman calls. “In four words or less,” she adds warningly.

“It’s a long story.” Dean motions to his double again. “But I promise there’s a reason why I’m just as handsome as your boyfriend.”

The woman huffs out a breath that isn’t exactly a laugh. “Fine. I vote we hear the joker out.” Then she shifts to train the gun on Sam, cocking it carefully. “His tall friend, on the other hand--”

“Don’t even think about—“ Dean starts, but he barely has time to take a step forward before his armed double has wrenched the gun out of the tall woman’s hand and thrown it violently to the floor.

“Nobody touches him,” he snarls over the heavy clatter. His voice is rougher than the real Dean’s, harsher. And his eyes... Sam almost wants to say ‘ _Christo_ ’ to see if they’d reveal the darkness they hint at.

“Fucking hell, Winchester.” She raises her hands mockingly, making it three of them now with their arms up. “Do you know him?”

“Yes. We need to take him—them in. Figure out what the fuck this is.” His eyes dart back to Sam as though the need is automatic but then wrench away again. An angry hand gets rubbed over his hair. "Stun them."

"Whoa whoa whoa--!" Dean starts to shout but it's too late, the woman moves before they can duck for cover and in one swift second she's taken out another gun and shot a hissing dart at each of their throats.

The fast-acting tranquilizer drops him like a stone; Sam feels his legs buckle and his knees hit the floor (something that will probably hurt later but he's not feeling any pain right now). His vision blurs and his thundering heart is only pumping the drug to his brain more quickly, but he's freaking the hell out--they don't know what the rules are in this alternate universe and they are completely at the mercy of a version of Dean who _scares_ him.

Distantly, he hears a growl of; “No one can know about them, Risa.”

“I will gladly keep my trap shut after your evil twin’s explanation.”

"... Fine. Radio the camp to tell them I want the bunker empty by the time we get back. Don't say anything about what we’re bringing in, ‘cause we’re going straight to my cabin to check them out. You hear that, Nate?"

“Got it! Mum’s the word on the Dean clone and his tall boyfriend.”

He fades into unconsciousness right as the other Dean lets out a strangled barking sound that’s far, far from being a laugh.

 

\- 5 –

 

The man with his face has been staring at Sam’s unconscious body for the past five minutes, minimum. Dean knows this because he woke up around that time and the dude was already at it. In order to keep his alert state under wraps as long as he can, Dean has mostly managed to not move--unfamiliar press of paneled wood against his body tells him he's on the floor; the tug of a metal ring around his wrist that he's handcuffed, and the stale smell of old nachos that it’s been a while since anyone cleaned anything around here.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Sam lying beside him, which took care of _that_ panic attack, but the second was the person at the table only a few feet away from their unconscious bodies. The person who looked freakishly like him. The other Dean. Potentially the Dean from the future, or the alternate reality, or hell, the parallel dimension a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away—whatever, the other Dean was there. Sitting on a chair and looking at Sam.

Upon realizing they had company Dean had considered faking unconsciousness for a little longer, but then he'd realized that his counterpart was staring at Sam _so hard_ he hadn’t noticed Dean was awake. And it looked like he would continue not to notice if Dean kept his eyes open.

This was, for obvious reasons, useful to him because it meant he was free to check out their surroundings, try to plan their exit strategy and try to figure out how royally fucked they were in the adapted Winchester scale of ‘fucked’ degrees. But instead of any of that, Dean has somehow found himself focusing on the other man’s weirdly intent expression, and not doing any of the shit he should be doing.

Sam shuffles lightly in his sleep (maybe a sign of his impending wakefulness) and the other Dean tracks every move, his gaze sharp and focus complete. It's not entirely unlike the way Dean's caught himself looking at his brother more than once, but from the outside it looks...

Okay, it looks vaguely creepy is what it does.

Sam moves again, a distressed frown pulling his eyebrows inward, and Dean-lite actually sits forward in his chair, following the little changes in Sammy's expression. He has no damn right to look at Sam like that. None. Sam belongs to Dean, and this guy is not--where's _his_ Sam, anyway?

“Dean?” Sam murmurs, and what it does to the other dude's face is what finally makes Dean sit up, foregoing his fake slumber.

“Dude, seriously,” he grunts, enjoying the disconcerted flash of surprise on his double’s face. “Get a hold a’yourself, huh?”

“Dean,” Sam says again, alert this time, and other-Dean turns back to him so fast Dean worries he’ll get whiplash. “Where are...?” but he goes quiet the moment he opens his eyes.

His gaze has landed on other-Dean, and stayed there. There’s a pause while they assess each other, and then other-Dean stands from his chair so abruptly it topples backwards, the noise awkward in the dense silence. It’s loud and embarrassing but the look passing between them is intense, charged with a tension that flows both ways; Sam clearly aware of the fact that other-Dean is not _Dean_ -Dean, not his Dean, but the concentrated power of the man’s gaze flows right back at him.

Dean feels like he's been relegated to 'furniture'.

“Don’t know about the where, Sammy,” he says casually, and doesn’t miss the little start as Sam registers his presence, his position so close by. “But I think we’ve finally got the when.”

“W-what?”

“When?” other-Dean echoes skeptically.

Dean nods at a calendar that’s precariously hung on the wall next to them. The paper is dirty and yellowing but the fact that this month appears to be covered in post-it notes and red marker tells Dean it’s being used currently, and therefore a reliable source. The year is clearly visible; 2014.

“You’re me from the future. Four years into the future, to be exact.”

Other-Dean looks away from Sam at the words, finally turning to him. And all of a sudden it hits Dean, why his double is acting like this. Why he looks a hundred years old and rotten inside, as though he’s an automaton with nothing left to live for.

His eyes lose their light when he’s not facing Dean’s brother. As though he’s already dead.

He doesn’t have a Sam anymore.

“Time-travel?” other-Dean grunts. He sounds like he took up smoking or something; voice gruff and at a lower register than comes naturally to Dean. Almost reminds him of Dad. “ _Really_.”

“Not by choice, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” Dean informs him.

“Wasn’t,” other-him snorts. “But you’re not a shifter and you’re not a demon, so what the hell else could you be?”

“Exactly. We’re telling you the truth,” Sam pipes up. Dean almost wishes he hadn’t; the hunger in other-him’s eyes when he immediately turns back to look at Sam would be pathetic if it didn’t remind Dean so much of a starved dog let loose at a banquet. He’s right. He knows he is, this other-him hasn’t seen Sam in a long time--maybe years.

“Ain’t buying your ‘truth’ without some proof,” other-Dean tells Sam. It sounds less harsh than it was probably meant to. Dean is starting to find himself torn between disgust and an embarrassed kind of pity ~~.~~

“How can we prove it to you when we’re not even sure how it happened?” Sam says.

“You each tell me something only Sam-n’-me would know,” other-Dean says. “You let me check out your anti-possession tattoos and keep still like the good little boy you are.”

Dean doesn’t miss the slip back into singular at the end there.

Like he said... creepy.

“Start with me, then,” Dean says. “And after that we’re gonna want some explaining on your part, too.”

He gets ignored for his troubles. Again. Other-him takes a few greedy steps forward (toppled chair abandoned) and stops to crouch down in front of Sam, shoulders hunched in a sort of protective set that really rankles Dean’s nerves.

“Sam,” he says with a nod. “You go first, Sam.”

There’s obvious gusto in the way he says the word twice. _Take it down a notch_ , Dean thinks loudly at him. _Freakin’ psycho_.

 

\- 6 -

 

Sam was never one for the metaphor with the fly and the web and the spider, but he feels seconds away from being eaten. And the worst part is that he’d let this version of Dean do anything to him.

“O-okay,” he says, giving a little nod. “Right.”

It’s in the predatory stance future-Dean adopts, maybe, or in the excessive focus he trains on Sam when he looks at him. Like he’s listening to every catch of breath, paying attention to every inflection in his voice—like being in Sam’s presence is a full-body experience. So different from the real Dean’s actions of late, his hurtful words over the phone: “ _I think we’re weaker_.” (‘ _Bullshit’,_ Sam should have replied instantly _. ‘That’s fucking bullshit, Dean’_.)

“Go on. Something only the real Sam would know about me,” future-Dean prompts.

“I...” Sam flounders for a moment, trying to think past this weird willingness he’s finding himself exhibiting, this bizarre urge to tell this version of Dean to come closer, if he wants. Bizarre not because that’s a new thought—it’s one of the oldest, most ingrained urges in him—but because he can almost imagine this Dean saying ‘yes’. “I... fireworks. The year you took me to that field on the fourth of July and it was just us and the car and the fireworks.”

Dean nods. “Go on. Be specific.”

Sam racks his brain. “We... we hugged. I was still midget-sized and you...” Oh God he should have probably picked a different memory. “You, uh, kissed the top of my head and it was... the last time, that that happened.”

Because with the growing pains had come the unstoppable tornado of irrepressible desire for his brother’s body, a boiling hormonal cocktail barely contained in Sam’s too-thin frame. And he’d never gotten so close to Dean like that again, no longer able to maintain that easy physical contact without feeling like a live wire had been rammed up his spine.

Future-Dean nods, but his eyes stay fixed on Sam’s face, never going unfocused with the memory. It’s like he doesn’t even try to remember, but he seems to believe Sam anyway.

“Hey, douche-face.” The real Dean sounds pissed the fuck off. “You gonna take my word for it or is it my turn, then?”

Future-Dean gives Sam one last, lingering look and grudgingly walks over to his body double. The image is truly overwhelming: two Deans, facing off (because there’s no denying that that’s what they’re doing), glaring at each other.

The physical differences are subtle but very much there. Four years has apparently been enough to give Dean a lot of pronounced lines and crow's feet, although he definitely looks like he hasn't laughed in all that time either. Their profiles are the same but future-Dean's skin is dry and maybe a little more tan, more freckled therefore because of it.

“Talk,” future-Dean commands.

The mouths are the same but chapped lips and a more unkempt version of Dean's usual five o'clock shadow make future-Dean look harder, more unforgiving. Not any less kissable for some reason, but something about him suggests he would want to pin you down while you did it just so there was another thing for him to control.

Sam’s Dean smirks maliciously. “Rhonda Hurley.”

That’s all he says. Some girl’s name—a girl that didn’t even stay long enough for Sam to know she existed. It’s ridiculous to feel hurt or annoyed, but Sam does both.

Future-Dean snorts and nods, something in his expression seeming to loosen fractionally.

“All right. Fair’s fair.”

“So you’re going to untie us?”

“Not yet.” He stands up. “But I believe you. We thinking angels did this? Are they still on Earth in your timeline?”

“They’re not in yours?”

A dark huff. “Nope. They left when shit went down in Detroit.”

"What went down in--"

"I said no to Michael. They weren't very happy about that."

There's an obvious missing part of the story, but that's all the information future-Dean volunteers.

Sam needs to know, though. “And me?" he asks, straining against the handcuffs to lean forward (much as his awkward position allows with his hands tied behind his back).  "What about me?”

There's no answer, but future-Dean turns away from him to face the cabin door.

“Where am I?”

Still looking away, future-Dean's shoulders tense. He doesn't turn back around when he finally decides to reply.

“You’re gone, Sammy.”

Next to him, real-Dean’s jaw clenches tightly but he looks like the words just confirm some suspicion. Sam’s not sure how he feels in regard to his future death, or the use of the word ‘Sammy’ by another Dean who acts so unlike his brother.

"Oh."

"... Yeah."

Having caught up on the _when_ they are, both brothers start asking questions about the _where_. Turns out this is a survivor camp, constructed after the Croatoan virus started taking over—a more virulent strain, deadlier and faster-acting. Future-Dean doesn’t tell them in as many words, but he’s clearly the leader of the place, and he organises weekly raids into town for supplies, which is how they found each other.

“Great. Now... you wanna think about uncuffing us, at least? I’m starting to chafe, here.”

Future-Dean ignores his counterpart’s protests and looks at Sam instead. “What about you, Sam?”

Sam wasn’t expecting the question but he gets a frisson of that feeling again; that weird zinging thrill of focus. Both Deans are looking at him. “Uh... yeah. Sure, I could do with being uncuffed.”

“Then uncuffed you will be,” future-Dean says decidedly.

Sam’s Dean snorts in a loud and pointed manner.

“You got a sinus problem or something, man?” Future-Dean asks. It feels like he’s letting Sam in on it though, like it’s him and Sam mocking the real Dean (past-Dean? No, no, he’s current-Dean at any rate) instead of the brothers being united against a new threat.

But that had been Dean’s decision. Dean had said _I think we're weaker_.

Sam still thinks he maybe shouldn’t let this one fly.

“Hey man, we don’t.... I mean we don’t really know you from Adam, so... you wanna stow the attitude?”

Future-Dean looks at him with disappointment. “Fair enough.” He shoots his double a dark look. “I didn’t let my baby brother save my ass all the time, you know.”

 

 

\- 7 -

 

Dean can't even speak for a moment, he's so fucking angry. Other-him’s attitude has been grating from the start but for the guy have the balls to say something like _that_ —

The fear and the ugly emotions he's been storing up for the past few minutes come out all mixed together in a cocktail of anger when he speaks next.

“Screw you, man; at least I kept my brother alive.”

Other-him flinches like he’s been physically struck. The color (and expression) seems to drain from his face and when he stands up, he’s back to looking the way he’d looked in the beginning, when Dean got that initial impression of him as an imposing, alien figure.

“You don’t deserve—“ he starts to growl, but cuts himself off. “I’mma make sure you get what you deserve.”

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Wait, wait..." Sam tries to spread his hands placatingly, having briefly forgotten he's handcuffed. There's a clang and subsequent wince, and other-Dean lurches forward and back like a puppet, like Sam holds his strings. "What are you saying, Dean?"

"Yeah, Dean. What the _fuck_ are you saying?" Dean echoes.

"I'm saying I've got a camp to manage. I've got people runnin' scared and croats getting closer to finding us every day. I can’t have you two walking around this place freaking people out. I don't... know what I'm gonna do with you yet."

"But..." Sam levels the puppy eyes up at him in full force. Dean almost expects his future counterpart to actually keel over at that, given how over-the-top his reactions to Sam's every tiny move have been so far. "You said you were going to untie us. You're not gonna keep us here forever, right? We need to figure out how to get back to our timeline. What it was that brought us here in the first place, and why--"

"I don't care about why," other-him says. "I don't give a shit why the angels in your world sent you ahead into mine. You're here now. I just gotta figure out the rest, and I will, I just need some time."

Something cold and afraid has dropped into Dean's stomach. He has the feeling the other guy isn't including him in that 'you'. _You're here now. You, Sam, are here now._

" _We_ care. About all of it," he grunts. "And we wanna go back."

It gets him a glare but no answer.

"You're gonna help us get back, right?"

Still, no answer.

"Dude. You can't keep us locked up in here!"

"...Watch me."

The door slams shut behind him and there's the sound of a solid lock slotting into place. Dean's too stunned by his apparently latent dramatic tendencies to even react for a moment.

"Did he just...?" Sam starts, and trails off, also looking incredulous.

"Yeah. Future-me is a fucking dick."

 

 


	2. II

\- 8 -

 _“..._ _Future-me is a fucking dick."_

Sam blinks rapidly at the locked door, breath uneven. For all that future-Dean had started to seem a bit more approachable after a few minutes of conversation, he reverted back immediately at Dean’s comment.

 _Screw you, man; at least I kept my brother alive_.

No, he hadn’t liked that at all. His sudden mood shift had reminded Sam of _Dad_. Of Dad when Sam had mentioned mom.

“I...”

“I’m going to fucking kill that guy,” Dean mutters.

Sam jerks his head sideways. “What? You can’t kill yourself.”

“Oh just you watch me, Sammy.”

“You. Can’t. Kill. Yourself. Who knows what kind of future imbalance that could cause?”

Dean huffs. “It’d probably be worth it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

They both jump.

Zachariah just appeared on the chair future-Dean had occupied before.

“What the _hell_ , man?” Dean yells.

The archangel rolls his eyes. “Enough with the ‘hell’, Dean. I’m from the opposite team, remember?” He pauses, then cocks his head. “Although one could argue this plotline is partly because of them, actually.”

“What _is_ this?” Sam asks. “Why did you bring us here?”

“This is your future if Dean doesn’t say ‘yes’ to Michael, boys.” Zachariah stands up and dusts off his suit. He sounds very business-like all of a sudden. “About three-fifths of the world is dead, another fifth is... well, let’s just say a sample of them made up your welcome-wagon to twenty-fourteen, and they had a pretty extreme case of the munchies. The remaining population lives like _this_.” He gestures to their dingy quarters, the dim lighting. “All thanks to you.”

He’s looking at Dean, not both brothers. Just Dean. Sam isn’t stupid. He understands what that means, what the missing piece of the story is. Something cold and slick sinks inside his chest.

He isn’t dead in the future, like he first thought.

Dean said ‘no’ to Michael, but Sam... Sam must have said ‘yes’.Dean held fast and Sam failed. Humanity and his brother—he failed them all.

“So this is another lesson?” Dean scoffs, disgusted. “Seriously? Fuck you, man, fuck all your buddies and fuck your manipulative, lying asses—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, language, please!” Zachariah protests, although he still looks somewhat amused. “Dean, this lesson is the most important one of all. That’s why I’m leaving you in Camp Chitaqua for a day. And for the record, it doesn’t really matter if you kill your future self, although I’m sure every psychologist on the planet would give an arm to study you.”

Sam took a psych class freshman year. Dean’s actually a pretty classic case.

“As of right now, I’m giving you twenty-four hours so you can experience the world as it’s become, so that you understand what it comes down to. You can’t let sheer stubbornness cause the deaths of so many people. You two hold the fate of the world in your hands, and it’s up to—“

“Up to us to prevent this, everything comes down to consent, yada yada, we get it. A day in some Apocalypse Now retelling ain’t gonna change my mind about Michael’s holy penetration.”

There’s a beat of silence after those words.

“You know what I—“

“I think you’ll beg him to do it by the end of the day, Dean,” Zachariah interrupts. He sounds completely sure of it; it’s easy to believe him. “I also think you should ask your future self about Sam some more. I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say about the way you two ended things back in ’09.”

Dean’s glare seems to slacken.

“Have fun wiping your ass with newspaper.”

And he’s gone in a loud blast of light and sound, making Sam flinch violently.

“I’ve wiped my ass with worse!” Dean yells after him.

“ _Dude_ ,” Sam mutters.

“I hate angels _so_ fucking much.”

Sam lets his head thunk back against the wall, nevermind that his shoulders are aching from having his wrists pinned behind his back.

Twenty-four hours doesn’t sound so bad, but he’s afraid of what this will do to Dean’s resolve. For all his bravado, Dean’s DNA is interlaced with guilt and a heroic coding that fuels his every action, there’s only so much responsibility he’ll be able to take in order to spare Sam—maybe before Hell it wouldn’t have mattered, but now Sam’s not so sure.

Sam’s own resolve is best not examined too closely. Especially not after finding out that a version of him already lost the battle.

“Hey, Sam...” Dean starts—

The door to the room bursts open.

It’s the woman who was with future-Dean at the start; Rita or Risa, possibly. Sam’s pretty sure it was Risa.

“What was that?” she demands. “That light? What was it?”

Dean glares at her. “What do you know about bright lights?”

“I know they used to mean Archangels.” She looks from one Winchester to the other. “I also know I’m the only person in this camp besides Dean and the Brit who knows you two are in here, and I will bust these doors wide open and I _will_ scream about two shifters in the boss’ cabin unless you tell me what the hell just happened.”

There’s a long, loaded pause.

“Did anyone else see the light?” Dean asks first.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I was standing guard outside the door.”

Dean nods. Sam just stares at her.

“Okay then. Yeah, that was an Archangel.”

“The angels left.”

“That was an Archangel from our time.”

 

\- 9 -

She takes it in stride, which is suspicious enough, but then her guess of: “Your time being twenty oh-nine?” just confirms that future-Dean spoke to her after he left.

“So you know.”

“I know you say you’re time-travellers and I know you’ve got Dean all shook up about it, is what I know.”

Funny, the last ‘you’ seems directed at Sam alone; _you, Sam, have got Dean all shook up_. It’s the same inflection his future self used, and it’s just as worrisome to note the second time around.

“I also know you’re not shifters or demons, because I was there for that set of tests. So I guess crazy things are happening all around us every day, and this is just...” she purses her lips and smacks them together, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Yeah. So... are you going to let us go?”

She snorts. “ _No_.” Dean figured as much. “That’s up to the bossman,” Risa adds.

“Sounds like I’m the big cahoona, huh.”

“You could say that. You could also say your ‘cojones’ are—“ She’s interrupted by a clicking sound and then the door starts to open behind her. Reflexively, Risa kicks it shut, prompting a delayed “...Ow,” from the other side.

“Cas?” Dean calls. That croaky voice is unmistakeable.

“Dean?” A pause. “No. Not quite. What’s going on?”

“Dammit,” Risa sighs, and wrenches the door open to let Castiel in.

Only... he doesn’t look like the Castiel Dean has grown to know and tolerate. Dean looks to Sam for a reaction and is not dissapointed; Sam’s jaw is hanging open and his eyes are wide with shock.

In 2014, Castiel is... a hippie.

He’s wearing some sort of poncho and sporting a beard, and there’s a faraway smile on his face that’s hollow in a hazy, drug-induced sort of way.

If Castiel is high right now, Dean has officially seen it all.

“I thought I felt a disturbance in the force.”

Dean is horrified. “Did you just make a _Star Wars_ reference?” he demands.

And then Castiel sees Sam. And the smile changes.

“I knew it.”

The haze seems to clear instantaneously, and something bright and frank blooms over Castiel’s features, illuminating an obvious happiness Dean has never seen the angel express before. Castiel walks up to them without any of his usual economy of movement, leaving Risa by the door with a dissapproving frown, and he’s like a whole new animal.

He kneels down in front of Sam, but turns to give Dean a slow nod, as if to say ‘ _amazing, right? Can you believe Sam exists_?’.

Dean just stares.

“I knew it had to be you,” Castiel says, wonderingly, to Sam. “The edges of the world were a little softer this morning, and I thought maybe... but of course, to be sure.”

He reaches out a hand toward Dean’s brother and, to his credit, Sam doesn’t flinch even when Castiel touches his forehead with a finger.

Nothing really happens.

... Castiel licks said finger.

“Not parallel, but past,” he proclaims. “Spicy like demon blood, but just traces. That’s normal. You’re still untouched by Lucifer.” He shoots Dean another look. “Dean must have freaked out, huh. My Dean, I mean. The one from this time.”

“Okay,” Risa snaps, having meandered over to them after making sure the door was locked properly. “Will somebody please tell me who the hell this kid is, and why he’s so important to Dean? Nobody mentioned someone from Dean’s past before today.”

“Sam’s identity is best kept a secret,” Castiel says before Dean can voice his own refusal to answer.

“...I see.”

The speculative look in Risa’s eye is one Dean’s seen many times before. He actually opens his mouth to tell her the truth—knee-jerk rejection to the idea of him and Sam being... like that—before catching himself. He should be used to the assumption since it’s happened enough times, but there’s still a jolt like a current that washes over him at the thought.

“Dean. You look less broken than I’m used to nowadays,” Cas says into the silence.

“... Thanks.”

“They’re definitely time-travellers, then?” Risa asks Castiel. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes. Indubitably.”

“Huh.”

Sam sits up a little straighter and the clinking sound of his handcuffs accompanies the move. “Will you take these off?”

Castiel smiles and heaves an endeared sigh. “Oh, Sam. Unless the key is lying around here somwhere, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Nothing you can...?” Dean starts.

“I’m running on empty, folks. Ever since the angels left, I’ve become... as close to human as I can be.” The bitter edges of his smile are, indeed, disturbingly human. Dean decides that seeing that much emotionality in Castiel’s facial expressions is really goddamn unnerving.

“Well, shit,” he says.

“You can say that again,” Risa mutters.

The door bursts open.

“Okay seriously, I _just_ locked that—“

It’s future-Dean again.

 

\- 10 -

“Cas. What the fuck are you doing in here.”

“They got a visit from one of my siblings. The echoes reached all the way to my cabin.”

Future-Dean looks from Sam to Dean back to Sam. He’s a hundred-percent back to looking inscrutable—another thing Sam’s Dean rarely is. “An angel? So we have confirmation that it was them that sent you here?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one?”

“Zachariah and his alternate storyline fetish, of course,” Dean snorts.

“Why would this archangel send you here, though?” Risa asks.

“He thinks this teaser of our upcoming future will change my mind about Michael.”

Castiel shrugs. “I mean, I suppose I’ve heard of worse ideas...”

“Then you’re going to love this one,” future-Dean mutters and makes a beeline for Sam, heavy boots thumping on the dusty floor. Sam actually has to fight not to squirm, his heartbeat climbing up his throat with nerves.

“W-what—“

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him, right before crouching down in front of Sam and taking a paperclip out of his pocket. “It’s okay,” he says again, but low enough that it’s for Sam’s ears only this time, and his tone is gentling.

He leans forward and puts his arms around Sam to unlock the handcuffs, sudden warmth and smell of gunpowder and Dean’s sweat engulfing Sam’s senses. His stubble brushes Sam’s ear.

He could have just done it from the side. This embrace wasn’t necessary.

“Have you... you’re letting us go?” Sam pants. Somehow he already knows the answer is ‘no’.

Future-Dean says nothing.

“Hey,” Dean barks from a couple of feet away. “Sam asked you a question.”

Still, future-Dean is quiet. The handcuffs click open and Sam is free, but now even Castiel looks a little nervous.

“Dean?” Risa asks. “The raid is tomorrow, shouldn’t we wait to deal with this after...?”

“Mission is cancelled,” future-Dean says curtly. “I just told Chuck, he’s letting the team know.”

“ _What_?”

“Dean,” Castiel says. “What are you doing.”

“We have the Colt, Dean, why would you cancel—“

“That Hail Mary shit isn’t my style anymore. We’re playing it safe.”

“Since _when_?” Risa demands. Then she shoots Sam an accusing look, like she just answered her own question. “Look, we have a shot at killing the Devil, we have to take—“

“I said no,” future-Dean snaps, and hauls Sam to his feet.

He doesn’t move to unlock his double.

“What’s going on...?”

“Don’t do this, Dean,” Castiel warns, and his bloodshot eyes look unnerving all of a sudden.

“Sammy, if you want me invested in keeping my past self alive you’ll follow me without protest,” future-Dean says flatly.

“Where are you taking him?” Dean demands.

“Sam. Come on.”

“Sam’s not going anywhere with you!”

“ _Sam_.”

One of them is addressing Sam directly and the other is yelling at himself, but that’s not why Sam goes with the alternate version of his brother. It’s because of the absolute certainty that this guy will carry out any threat made without a moment’s hesitation.

“Let him go! Hey!” Dean lunges forward to a loud rattle of metal and groaning from the pipe he’s chained to. “Hey! Me! What are you going to do to Sam?”

“Dean, it’s okay, he won’t—“

“ _Hey_! Answer me!”

Future-Dean uses his grip on Sam’s forearm to tug him away, and to Sam’s own surprise his body goes docile like a switch was flipped.

They walk out of the door to Dean’s increasingly loud cries, the last one Sam’s ears pick up a torn, belated: “SAM!”

 

\- 11 -

Dean gets it. In theory.

He gets how the passage of time might char away the parts of him that are minimally functional now—or at least the parts that allow him to pass for a human being long enough to con an answer out of somebody.

He can imagine how that might have happened. Being forced to live with Sam dead for four years might create something worse than any monster Hell could mold him into. He figures the world caught a glimpse of that creature for a few hours the night before Azazel opened the gates of Hell.

But this son-of-a—

“Dean. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Dean tugs his hand sideways again, wrist burning and pulling uncomfortably, but not unbearably.

“He’s,” _tug_. “Got,” _tug_. “Sam.”

“He’s _you_ ,” Risa points out.

“Exactly.”

She snorts. “What. You don’t trust yourself?”

“Of course not.”

Castiel is staring at his own hands after plopping himself down on the chair future-Dean had occupied during his creepy staring session before.

“He’s probably just taking Sam somewhere safe,” Risa offers. “We brought you here first because this is his cabin, and we had to keep your ugly mug out of sight more than we had to keep you alive. But if the angels have come back—“

“M’not sweating the ‘ _where’_ , lady. It’s the ‘ _who’_ that bothers me.”

For some reason those words change her entire posture. Something about her shoulders softens, and she drops her arms to her sides from where they’d been crossed over her chest.

“I don’t understand. He’s... you.” But she sounds uncertain for the first time.

“Exactly,” he says again.

Risa watches him struggle for a few moments and finally walks over to the table, where, after ruffling through some papers, she produces a second paperclip.

Dean stills, not even trying to conceal his surprise. He would’ve thought, if anything, that these people would be loyal to him. Future-him. Whatever.

“I can’t believe he’d cancel the raid,” is all she says when she crouches down next to him and gets to work. She does the whole thing with decent timing and without any unnecessary closeness—fuck, watching Sam stay stock-still while that carbon-copy of himself practically felt up his little brother... that’s going right to the top of the (long) list of images that won’t let him sleep at night.

“There.”

Risa stands up and now so can Dean, cracking his knuckles and his shoulders irritably.

“Do you... why are you so different from him?”

Dean has a pretty good idea, but he’s not going to tell her.

She doesn’t insist, but does ask; “Can you tell me if he’s going to hurt the tall one?”

“Why do you care?”

“I won’t have innocent blood spilled in this camp, Dean. Past-Dean. Whatever.”

The truth is that Dean doesn’t know. ‘Hurt’ is a vague word and so many things Dean has done recently have hurt Sam in ways that aren’t physical (he’s done that too, but doesn’t think future-him will punch his newfound Sammy in the face). Smothering Sam with attention had apparently been so damn terrible that Sammy had felt the need to leave, way back when. Giving his life for the kid had made Sam crazy-furious. Not believing Sam about Ruby and the demon blood had been _so_ hurtful, oh yeah, even when it had been totally justified. Coming back from Hell with a bit of extra baggage, being a burden, wanting Sam too much, pushing Sam away after pulling him close, hurting Sam at every turn, hurting—

He doesn’t even want to imagine what this version of him can say to Sam to hurt him.

(What this version of him might want to do to Sam.)

“What are you afraid of, Dean?” Castiel asks abruptly. “What are you really afraid of?”

Dean tries to put it into words, but even in his own head it’s hard to explain. The fear is a bitter green feeling souring the back of his throat, overlayed over the vague displacement he always feels if Sam is out of his sight. He knows he’s not wrong; his future self is... unhinged, and zeroed in on Sam from the get go. Only bad things can come from their solo encounter, and whatever happens will drive a wedge where there’s already a crack between the brothers.

“He’s lost his mind, hasn’t he,” Dean says instead.

Castiel gives him a slow nod. “He’s lost his Sam.”

 

\- 12 –

Chitaqua looks remarkably like a repurposed version of the only summercamp Sam has ever attended (two weeks of Math Camp because Dad followed a false lead about a hunt). Beside the small area near the ‘big cahoona’s cabin, the rest of the barracks are set up in two lines facing each other, with an ample central avenue.

Future-Dean walks him calmly between a set of barracks to the only brick cabin Sam can see. They only encounter two people on their way; one in military cammo clearly doing a perimeter check and the other hauling an empty barrel in the opposite direction they are heading. Each of them shoots Sam a furtive look but while the army woman stops to briefly salute future-Dean, the young guy with the barrel just grunts and moves on. No one seems surprised to see a new face.

The cabin is small but there’s a crackle in the air one feels instantly upon crossing the threshold. It almost tastes like warding, not that Sam can see any obvious signs or sigils—in fact, the space is completely empty but for one bed in the corner.

“Why are you doing this, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer but he does shake his head in disgust (though what he’s disgusted at, Sam can only guess). “Sam, what part of 2009 are you from? What’s going on with us exactly?”

Sam walks over to the bed but then realizes he’s too on-edge to sit down, so he just stands awkwardly in front of it. Future-Dean hesitates for a split second before walking over to stand a respectable distance in front of him.

“Well?”

He considers lying, but ends up telling the truth instead. He tells this Dean about his past self’s doubts about Sam, about the growing mistrust, and tells him about his own doubts and insecurities as well. He doesn’t dress it up or play it down, just summarizes the painful parts (Bobby in the chair, War, Lucifer, the three hunters who jumped him) and makes sure to hit the highlights.

Future-Dean listens to his every word, stone-faced without a twitch to betray his being affected by anything Sam says.

“So this is right after I said... I told you not to—“

“That I couldn’t come back,” Sam interrupts. “That we shouldn’t do it together anymore.”

Future-Dean nods. Dean was never this good at keeping his emotions from Sam—not ever.

“I did everything wrong back then.” The words land with a thud, an admission directed at himself four years ago, and they seem to be the only apology Sam’s going to get. “But all that’s in the past, and you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

“I was safe back there, too. With Dean, and Cas and Risa...”

“No. You’re not safe with that version of me, Sam.”

Sam almost wants to laugh. Almost.

“What?”

“You’re not as safe with him as you are with me, trust me.”

“But—“

“And if Zachariah is the one that brought you here that means he intends to take you back. You need to be _safe_.”

It’s only then that Sam finally, _finally_ gets it.

“That’s how the dickbag’s lessons always go, right? He uses us, abuses us, and after we’ve danced to his tune for a bit he tosses us back into our lives.”

Future-Dean’s not letting him go back to 2009.

“Well, he’s not getting away with it this time. He’s powerful, sure, but he’s also really, _really_ stupid.”

Not ever.

“Dean...” Sam croaks, the fear suddenly squeezing his throat. “Is this room angel-proof?”

“The only one in the camp.” Future-Dean nods. “For now.”

 

\- 13 -

“Where would I have taken Sam?” Dean asks Risa, but it’s Castiel who answers.

“There’s only one place.” He pokes Dean on the arm. “And I can’t go in.”

It takes Dean less than a second.

“Angel proofing?” Fuck, wait—“Is he trying to trap Sam here _forever_?”

“It’s what I would do. If I was you and an angel brought Sam into my life again I would lock him away somewhere and keep him, too. Zachariah wouldn’t be able to snatch him back and maybe summer would feel like summer again.” He heaves a deep, weary sigh. “Sadly, future-you loves Sam more than he loves what remains of humanity, and for every action there exists an equal but opposite reaction; he hates you more than—‘

“Yeah no shit. Let’s go.”

They exit the cabin in single-file, with Risa bringing up the rear and looking deep in thought. “So you’re going to walk up to him and try to get Sam back? That’s it?”

“That’s the plan, yeah. I mean, it’s three against one; I like our odds.”

Castiel raises his hands. “Oh no, please don’t count on me. I’m not fighting you, Dean.”

Dean glares at him. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m not on anybody’s side. And he... you saved my life, in the future. For what it’s worth.”

The air is grainy and ashy in this timeline, especially outside. It makes Castiel look more pitiful and less formidable than ever in his weird clothes and stubble; but there’s something about the eyes...

“Dean.” The former angel puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and leans in close enough that Dean can smell the pot on his breath. He’s almost whispering so Risa won’t overhear what he says next. “He’s been mourning Sam for four years. I have never seen—never, in all my lifetimes, have I experienced such acid, burning grief. He’s half-dead. Sometimes... sometimes I can’t see his soul.”

It’s no more than Dean expected.

“He’s not keeping Sam here.” He looks over Castiel’s shoulder at Risa. “You’ll help me, right?”

Her arms drop from where she’d been adjusting her ponytail, and she nods. “Relax, cowboy, we’ll get your man back. The boss has been acting weird since yesterday and I for one am not going to let him wreck everything we’ve been working for.”

Dean can respect that.

“Thanks.”

“Yup. Shall we?”

“You packing?”

She snorts, pulls up her jacket so he can see both guns strapped to her waist. “Always. Welcome to 2014, baby.”

 

\- 14 -

“You...?”

Sam’s knees buckle. The mattress cushions the fall but not the blow.

Future-Dean quickly drops to a crouch too, so that he’s still looking up at him. Maybe he thinks that makes him look less threatening.

“Sammy. I’m gonna angel-proof this whole camp, I won’t keep you locked up.”

Sam shakes his head. “But... but I have to go back, Dean. I have to fix this—“

“No.” Future-Dean’s knees hit the floor and he rests his weight on his heels, further lowering himself to the ground and bizzarely making Sam think of prayer. “No, Sam, going back is a death sentence for you. It can’t happen. Once the camp is secure you’ll be free to walk around, I promise. You won’t be my prisoner. We won’t tell anyone who you are and—and you’ll be my second in command, and it’s all gonna work out. But you can’t go back to the past.”

Sam feels dizzy. “Why...?”

“I told you why, Sam—“

“No, I mean... why are you doing all this? C-canceling your mission and... all of it.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath. “ _Sam_ ,” he bites out. “There was a time you wouldn’t-a had to ask me that. You’d’ve just known.”

“Known?” he echoes. It’s back again, that trapped feeling; that hypnotized feeling like he’s petrified and Dean can do with him whatever he wants. “How am I supposed to know why you’d go to all these lengths to stop me from fixing things—“

“Christ, how can you...” he’s losing his impassivity with every word. “Why do I do _anything_ , Sam?” He leans forward, and suddenly a large hand is on Sam’s knee and Sam stopped breathing five minutes ago.

“I—“

“Why do I fucking—why do you _think_?”

He looks so desperate, so insanely desperate, and there’s a fervor there that brings back the idea of religion. This Dean looks at him like Sam is _sacred_.

“I...”

The words are there in the air between them, but Sam won’t be the one to say it and he’s too flustered by the warm palm on his leg anyway, because Dean (future-Dean, other-Dean, _not the real Dean_ ) is touching him.

“I...”

Dean’s jaw is slack like Sam’s next few words are all he cares about.

Sam’s knees spread infinitessimally without conscious thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your incredibly awesome words. Feedback is cherished, as always!


	3. III

\- 15 -

Camp Chitaqua seems weirdly empty as Risa walks them to the angel-proof bunker. “It’s not actually a bunker, s’just a cabin,” she explains. “We never thought there’d be cause to use it, though. Not after the angels left.”

They cross the central avenue and Risa nods at a chick tugging stuff off a laundry line. “Hey, Andrea.”

“Hi, Risa. Hi, Dean.”

Dean nods at her. “Hey.” He tries to look dead inside, and is confident of success.

When they pass between two barracks and don’t encounter anyone else, he lengthens his stride to catch up to Risa and shoots her a questioning look. “So... where is everybody?”

“Hm? Oh, lunch, I’d imagine.” She points towards a far-off building that’s hard to make out through the smog. It looks bigger than the other bunkers, though; tall enough that Dean can distinguish its silhouette against the grey sky. “That’s the dining hall. Main food supplies are stored in the only working fridges there, so. Rations for the week are distributed at twelve o’clock every Tuesday. Individual shares means everyone’s gotta show.”

Even as she says it, a couple in their mid-fifties shuffle out of a side door nearby. They seem to be carrying a bunch of empty tupperware containers. “Mornin’, Risa. Castiel,” the woman says genially when they cross paths. Her eyes flit away from Dean before she adds. “Good morning, Dean.”

As if he needed more reasons to be unnerved.

Risa motions for them to keep moving and it only takes another few seconds before the brick cabin comes into view.

“Well... this is it.”

It’s much smaller than Dean first envisioned, and he wonders whether it was just a storage space for hiking gear or the like in the past. There’s only one window and it’s boarded up.

They can’t burst in there guns blazing; Dean knows it’s a bad idea to startle his future self when he’s already so clearly wired by Sam’s presence. They need a more subtle approach, something that allows for immediate control of the situation without any risk of harm coming to Sam.

The door looks rickety and easily surmountable--there’s probably little reason to maintain strong physical barriers if it’s heavily warded. The real challenge is definitely going to be how to distract his doppelganger once they get in.

“Cas. Can you see inside?”

Castiel has looked progressively sicker and less pleasantly buzzed the closer they got to the structure. He looks at Dean with a confused, vaguely nauseated expression.

“No.”

Dean turns to Risa for ideas, having given up that avenue instantly, but then--

“But there is _some_ thing...” Castiel shields his eyes like there’s a glare coming from the building, which is ridiculous given the permanent cloud cover the apocalypse apparently came with.

“What?”

“I’m not... sure.” It’s almost impossible to define the tone of voice Castiel employs to say those words, but it raises every hair on the back of Dean’s neck.

“ _What_ , Cas?”

“I think... it looks like...”

Dean counts to ten and when Castiel still hasn’t finished his fucking sentence he shoves at the former angel’s arm, hard enough that Castiel actually stumbles.

“Looks like _what_?”

 

-16 -

“Sam,” the man says. The man who is not Dean. Not really.

Except.

“I.”

The palm on his leg makes Sam think of the handprint on Dean’s shoulder and for one crazy second Sam fantasizes that this situation will draw something similar on his own flesh. For an instant, he imagines showing Dean a handprint of his own but not telling him where it came from, letting Dean see the evidence of a profound and intimate touch and then making Dean guess who did it. It’d be petty and cruel and achingly satisfying.

“Sam.”

Future-Dean’s tone of voice is retreating from its desperation back into something hesitant; subdued.

“Hey, it’s okay, Sam. Breathe. I’m sorry. Breathe. Don’t... don’t be scared.”

Future-Dean is looking at Sam like he’s a spooked horse, and slowing down his movements and leaning back--and the hand, the brand, the thing that was going to make them _even_ \--the hand slips away, too.

Sam no longer moves with the demon-slick speed of muscles pumping supernatural fuel, but his reflexes have always been excellent.

_(Nice reflexes_ , Dean had admired on a Tuesday, eyes like saucers--before, everything _before_ ; before Sam let him down and Dean went to Hell and took their bond with him; before Dean returned hurt and lashing out and refusing to be helped and guilty beyond belief; before he brought back a mangled ruined thing he called his love for Sam and slapped that on as an excuse for everything he did wrong, including his completely justified mistrust of his little brother... before they let Lucifer out of the cage.)

Sam catches the hand before it’s out of his reach, and blindly, unthinking, puts it back.

He’s panting crazily, like anxiety, like a heart attack. Future-Dean looks worried.

“Sammy, what’re you--”

Sam lunges forward and cuts him off with a kiss.

If he’d stabbed future-Dean in the stomach, the sound he lets out when Sam pulls away might have been the same.

“ _Sam_ ,” he breathes. “Sammy, what the...” His hands hover in the air above Sam’s shoulders, as though he’s suddenly afraid to touch.

After everything that’s happened since Zachariah sent them here, after being chased by zombies and knocked out and held captive and being confused and afraid and wholly at this man’s mercy, Sam suddenly feels _powerful_. It almost reminds him of the heady feeling he used to get as a kid, the iron certainty that Dean would do literally anything he asked. Before.

But this is now. And in this version of ‘after’ there’s a version of Dean who is so desperate for any piece of Sam he can get that he might--he will even give him this.

Sam thinks, incredulous; _I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger,_ and leans forward again.

He’s right.

Future-Dean surrenders after a laughably short second. He cradles Sam’s face in his palms and seems to kiss Sam back with his whole body, swallows Sam’s whimpers hungrily.

When Sam bites at his lower lip to feel it swell up future-Dean lets him; when Sam trails his mouth along Dean’s jaw to do the same to his earlobe Dean just breathes harshly and _lets_ him. He lets Sam do whatever he wants. All Sam has to do is pretend not to hear when future-Dean pants; “What... what did I do to you, huh? God, what did I...” He can just press his teeth into the groove of Dean’s jaw and squeeze his eyes shut.

He can let himself get lost in the selfish, heady feeling that takes him back to the start, and kiss this Dean until there’s no space in his mind to be afraid.

“Sammy, what... what did I do?”

 

\- 17 -

The change is sudden. Castiel flings out both hands as if to say ‘silence’ and then actually shushes them when a passing breeze rustles an empty plastic bag a few feet away.

“We didn’t say anyth--” Risa starts to say, but the former angel is walking towards the door to the cabin.

“Something’s wrong,” he rasps, hand on the brick as though testing the invisible wards. “Something that wasn’t supposed to... something that wasn’t supposed to happen is happening.”

He turns to look at Dean over his shoulder.

“Dean. It’s happening to Sam right now.”

Dean instantly breaks into a sprint and slams straight into the door. His desperate momentum carries so much force that the door doesn’t just open; it breaks at the hinges and slams loudly to the floor, rattling his eardrums.

At first, all he sees is the closeness.

When his gaze lands on the two figures sitting on the edge of the mattress the only thing his brain seems to process is the fact that his clone and Sam are sharing a space that’s too small. Every single cell in his body rebels at the sight. Nobody who is a threat is allowed to be that close to Sam and live.

He’s already hurtling towards the man with his face when he catches up to what Sam is doing.

No.

No; to what is _being done_ to Sam.

He doesn’t see red. His vision doesn’t white out. With Dean, this stage of the fight, this close to the kill, the only color close to describing his state of mind is black. He becomes something weaponized, something closer to vehicle than human, and all he’s going to do is deliver pain.

They broke apart when he burst in and Sam is stuttering something but that’s just details. Dean moves to kill. Risa gave him one of her guns and he’s going to use the butt of it to crack future-him’s skull and then he’s going to calmly ensure at least ten rounds embed the shots in deep. He’s going to riddle the brain with bullets, he’s going to turn it into _pulp--_

That was the plan, anyway. But he forgot who he was fighting and his future self moves _fast_ ; the guy ducks the first blow and rolls to avoid the second, kicks at Dean’s knee to bring him down before he can try for a third. Chaos erupts in the wake of their fight; Risa came tearing into the cabin after him and someone else is yelling--

“Dean, stop--”

“Dean!”

“No! Wait!”

He keeps trying to overpower his body double regardless of the gun Risa pulls on him (dimly aware of the fact that she had likely assumed he was going to _subdue_ her commander, not murder him). But there aren’t any words that need to be spoken, nothing needs to be spelled out to this monster. He doesn’t give a shit if his future self has been possessed or had his soul sucked right out of his body; the technicalities don’t _matter--_

“Dean, _stop_!”

For some reason, Sam’s cry slows him down a millisecond. It’s not enough time for Risa to fire her weapon or for future-Dean to try and get away. But it’s enough for a familiar hand to grab his wrist and expertly twist until he drops the gun with a clatter.

It’s kicked away immediately after, and he can feel Sam’s presence at his back, looming.

“Sam...”

“I said _stop_ ,” Sam pants. He’s standing right behind Dean, but in front of Dean is the man who dared to lay a finger on his little brother. Future-Dean glares at him with a contempt so raw as to be almost feral.

Dean feels perfectly capable to matching it. ~~~~

 

-18 -

Sam knows the line of Dean’s shoulders and could devote paragraphs and pages to translating their various positionings in how they relate to Dean’s emotions.

Dean is a hair’s breadth away from murder right now.

Even without his gun (as if Dean needed a tool to kill things) Dean is only standing still because he isn’t done processing the new course of action. He probably hasn’t slowed down enough to think about what set him off in the first place, Sam suspects, but that’s the only thing that will stop him. Thinking.

“Dean,” Sam says again, modulating his voice in the only way he knows to bring Dean back from this state. “Dean, I’m okay.”

He isn’t entirely sure that he’s telling the truth. Is he okay? Will he ever be okay? The ghost of other-Dean’s lips presses wet and desperate on Sam’s mouth when he speaks again, but is that the reason he wants their captor to live?

Did he just put the final seal on his sanity by giving in to the thing he’s been denying himself his whole life?

“Dean, look at me.” Not a command; a pleading request. And it is the latter Dean obeys when it comes to Sam, always. “Please.”

It works; it gets Dean to turn around and look at him.

Dean’s green eyes are dulled by his resolve; he only looks like he’s half-listening to Sam’s voice. But he has to be made to hear.

“He didn’t... he didn’t make me.”

Sam has envisioned this moment every day of his life; since he realized there was a chance it might come. The Revelation, capital ‘R’ to give it its due biblical proportions. He has imagined a myriad of possible reactions, each more fantastical than the next, but there is only one way, the true way, that Dean will respond to such a confession.

“I wanted it.”

Sam awaits his brother’s inevitable revulsion and wishes he had ever gotten to the stage of resignation or defeat; but as with everything when it comes to him and Dean, the emotions are pulsing right under his skin, obstructing his airway and making him shiver. He always hoped he might feel a touch of relief, if Dean ever found out.

There is no relief. Dean’s rejection will tear him apart, and he recognises this truth a few seconds too late.

“...What?”

In Sam’s peripheral vision, Risa is having a hushed but furious argument with future-Dean, who took his chance to get to the other side of the room. Castiel nowhere to be found, but that’s still two more witnesses than Sam expected for such a life-changing confession

“I started it. It was me, so don’t... don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t hurt...?”

There isn’t a trace of comprehension on Dean’s face. His gaze has barely focused on Sam at all.

“Sammy it’s okay,” a deeper Dean-voice interrupts. And then Sam hears the click of a gun being loaded and realises Risa has given her weapon to her boss. She looks unsure about the decision, gaze flickering between the three of them, but it’s too late. Future-Dean is pointing square at his counterpart’s back. “I’mma need everybody to take a breath and cool it, all right? Don’t fucking move, past-me.”

Past-Dean ( _Dean_ -Dean) shoots Sam a look and shrugs.

“Nah, don’t think so.”

He turns around and the gun fires.

 

-19 -

The shot whizzes past his ear like a thunderclap and explodes a corner of the ceiling. If other-Dean thinks it’ll slow him down, he’s wrong. He did an unthinkable thing to Sam and he has to... to stop existing, he has to be _obliterated_ for daring to... for touching--

“I said everybody stay _fucking_ calm,” his own voice thunders from a stranger’s throat.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam gasps. Even Dean’s not sure who he’s calling out to but both of them ignore him this time, future-Dean is aiming square at Dean’s chest now and walking slowly towards him until they stand right in front of each other. It’d be a shot at point blank range; the gun is about an inch from Dean’s sternum.

Future-Dean holds that position for a beat and then lifts his arm and angles it so the barrel is pressing into the hinge of Dean’s jaw. He can feel his carotid artery pulse against the cold metal.

“Don’t... don’t shoot him,” Sam says from somewhere behind Dean.

Dean stares himself in the face and counts the reasons why his future counterpart has to die: the vitreous eyes, the still-damp mouth, the angle his mussed up hair is sticking at--

“I _said_ don’t move,” future-him growls, quiet, so it’s just for him. His expression bleeds hatred, pure and undiluted. “So don’t fucking move or your ear’s next.”

“You stay away from Sam, you freak,” Dean replies, words only slightly slurred by his impaired articulation.

“I’ll do whatever Sam wants,” his own voice tells him. “You didn’t appreciate him when you had the chance. You blamed him for everybody’s fuck-ups, including your own. Now, you pay. He stays where he is wanted, and you either behave or you get sent back to Hell.”

“Don’t you touch him again--”

“Both of you stop it,” Sam snaps. “Dean. Listen to me; I kissed him, okay? _I_ kissed _him_. It’s not his fault. I wanted to and I did. _That’s_ what happened.”

Future-Dean is disarmed by those words in more ways than one. Dean almost wants to laugh at the way his face slackens with surprise, at the helpless loss of his focus just because Sam’s voice wavered vulnerably the way it does when he’s manipulating someone.

Idiot shouldn’t have loosened his grip.

 

\- 20 -

The gun trades hands and the power trades places yet again, and it happens fast. Dean trips his future self so that they slam to the floor and after ten seconds of roughhousing Sam’s real brother has the upper hand again, panting on top of his double with the gun resting against future-Dean’s forehead.

He glances over his shoulder at Sam quickly as if to say: ‘ _You saw that, right? You caught that?_ ’ and seems satisfied to note Sam did, in fact, witness his victory. Then he leans down and spits; “Gotcha,” right in his own face. “ _Freak_.”

Sam shivers.

“You’re pathetic,” future-Dean spits back. “Don’t you remember what our siren said?”

“Wh--” For a moment, just... for a breath of a moment, Dean seems about to falter. But he recovers quickly; “No. You’re done. Say goodbye to your post-apocalyptic shit-show of a life.”

“Hey, hey, wait a second--” Risa interjects.

“Dean, _enough_ ,” Sam snaps. “Will you just listen to me, please?”

He’s angry. It took him a few minutes to realize this but he finally pinned the feeling down; he is beyond furious, anger clogging him up and begging to explode out of him, preferably in the form of fountains of black smoke.

Dean won’t. Fucking. _Listen_.

“We can talk when this is over, Sammy.”

“Don’t kill him.”

“He’s already dead.”

“ _Don’t_ , Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders roll with tension. “This... thing ain’t right in the head. It’s not--not _me_ anymore, you get that? He’s got to go.”

From the floor, future-Dean glares up at himself and seems completely unafraid of the barrel resting on his forehead. “You’re right about me not being you anymore, I’ll give you that,” he grunts.

“All right, why don’t we all just... calm down.” Risa, probably sensing imminent danger, steps towards them. “I’m sure Sam would like to have a conversation with you, uh, Dean, before you blow my boss’ brains out.”

“You saw what he was doing,” Dean snaps at her. “That seem normal to you? Huh? That seem like someone who deserves to lead your people?”

“I don’t know what I saw, but you can talk it out in therapy,” she replies. “Don’t fucking kill each other over it.”

“Find me a shrink who can fix this.”

“Put the gun down.”

“This is none of your damn business, Risa, get out before this idiot gets you hurt,” future-Dean says.

“ _He_ gets _me_ hurt?” Risa echoes. “You’re the one with a gun to his head, hoss.”

“Exactly, so why don’t you both shut up?” Dean says.

“Please,” Sam hears himself say, but it’s drowned out by the other three arguing.

“Oh get over it, so your boyfriend kissed your clone and he liked it--”

“Shut up--”

“Please, stop...”

“It’s not like it counts as cheating, anyway, I mean he’s still _you_ , after all.”

Both Deans yell at the same time: “No I’m not!” And “No he’s not!”.

“Oh for the love of toilet-paper—“ Risa groans.

“ _Hey! What the hell is going on_?”

The voice comes from outside--Castiel must have gone to get help.

There’s a small group of people framed by the doorway and peering inside. At the forefront stands a slightly grittier, shabbier version of the man Sam remembers as the prophet Chuck, and next to him stands Castiel, and behind him are two women Sam doesn’t know, and a wheelchair-bound--

“Bobby!” Sam gasps, instinctive.

Bobby squints into the cabin and when his eyes land on Sam, his face goes chalk-white. “No,” he breathes. He looks like he’s about to throw up. “It can’t be...”

“It’s Sam,” future-Dean calls out, still from his position being pinned flat on the floor. “It’s _Sam_ , Bobby.”

Bobby stares at him. “What?” Then his eyes land on the man currently doing the pinning.

“What is _that_?”

The question actually comes from the woman standing behind Castiel, and she’s pointing from one Dean to the other. Suddenly everyone seems to realize what they are seeing--and the only person paying Sam any attention anymore is future-Dean, who never really stopped. He looks furious and inconvenienced, and he throws Sam an intense look from the floor before twisting his head around to talk to the others.

“All right, so there’s been a situation developing since we got back from the raid,” he tells them.

Dean, who has obviously realized he’s outnumbered and holding a gun to these people’s leader, reluctantly tucks the weapon into the back of his jeans and gets up off him.

“...A situation,” another voice echoes.

“Yes, Annie, a situation.”

Future-Dean stands up and walks slowly to the door, steps heavy and probably deliberately authoritative. Risa rolls her eyes behind his back but everyone else just keeps staring at him--and then trying to stare inside the cabin at his clone.

“No cause for alarm, but I’mma call a Camp meeting in five, okay? All I need is for you to alert the others. Call back anyone who’s left for lunch, I’ll meet you in the food court. Everything will be made clear.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

“Dean...” Bobby starts, but then stops. “You better have a real good speech prepared, boy.”

“Dean never prepares his speeches,” Castiel comments. “But they do seem to work out, somehow.”

 

\- 21 -

Future-Dean starts to tell his people to take Dean back to his cabin and handcuff him again, but the threat of violence in the air is so implicit as to be practically _explicit_ , so he stops trying as soon as he catches the look in Dean’s eye.

“Fine. Fine. Risa, you seem to have forgotten how to stand guard, so I’m posting Chuck and Annie on the door.” He glances at the door in question, still flat on the floor where Dean knocked it down. “Entrance. Whatever. I’m gonna send someone to fetch my twin here when it’s time to roll out the explanations, ‘kay?”

“What... what about me?” Sam asks in a small voice.

It makes Dean sick, watching the way his own eyes soften when they land on Sammy. No one should be looking at Sam like that, with such devotion, such... fervor. Why doesn’t anyone else say anything? It’s so _obvious_ , and he still can’t believe--and _why_ did Sam say--

“You gotta stay in here, Sammy. So that Zachariah can’t take you away, yeah? So that you’re safe.”

Sam’s features crumple in dismay but before he can object future-Dean has stomped out and is walking next to Bobby’s wobbly rolling wheelchair. Bobby throws them one last look over his shoulder but Dean can’t interpret his expression.

The rest of group follows them, and the second they are out of sight Dean hears a sudden eruption of voices speaking over each other as questions are flung at his future self with gusto. Only Chuck and the ‘Annie’ chick stay behind, just as future-him ordered.

“Hey, so... uh, I’m gonna just...” Chuck makes a few complicated motions with his hands and then steps outside, apparently lost for words. He’s obviously not equipped to guard a kitten, let alone the grown-ass Winchesters, but Annie has two guns and a weary look in her eye like she’ll shoot someone in the ankle if she has to.

Dean looks at Sam, who sat (or dropped) back down on the mattress.

After a moment’s hesitation he stomps over to the door and hefts it up while Annie and Chuck look on. He shoots them a tight-lipped smile right before haphazerdly repositioning it to shut in their faces.

“Dean.”

Sam is staring at his own hands. They were gripping the back of future-Dean’s neck when Dean walked in before.

What... what did he...

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam breathes. “I’m so—“

“Why did you say that?” Dean interrupts. He can’t bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “Why did you say you wanted it, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t speak for the longest time.

“I...” he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and a defeated droop to his massive shoulders.

Dean opens his mouth to ask again just as Sam ends up sighing out: “I did.”

“No you didn’t.” It can’t be.

“I did want it, Dean,” Sam repeats quietly.

Dean rubs an agitated hand through his hair. “No. He’s... he’s messed with your head.”

“Dean. Listen to me. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“But why...?”

“I don’t know why! I just do. I always have.” To his horror, Dean sees Sam’s eyes fill with tears. “Just... don’t worry about it, okay? I got it under control. We can... it can be like it was before. I won’t leave again. I won’t—I won’t ask you to treat me different. I’ll just be your little brother, okay?”

“What?” Dean lets out a shaky laugh and Sam flinches. Why does everything he do hurt Sam, god- _fucking_ -dammit? “Sam, you’re telling me you want to make out with my body double and I’m supposed to just...”

“You’re not ‘supposed to’ anything,” Sam interrupts. “It’s... it’s whatever.”

“It’s ‘ _whatever’_?”

“It’s my problem! And anyway it doesn’t—we’re trapped in a post-apocalyptic future with zombies in it. This is nothing.”

 

\- 22 -

“This is _nothing_?”

“Will you stop that?”

Dean shoots him an incredulous look. Sam can’t stop his hands from rubbing together, right thumb digging into the middle of his left palm like an inexplicable compulsion.

“We need to get out of here,” he mumbles. “This is... we’ll deal with this later, if you want. You can yell some more or punch me or... but we need to get out of here now, right now, before they come back for you.”

Dean clearly hasn’t caught up to the sudden change of pace. “Huh?”

“We need to destroy the warding.”

“We can’t destroy angel warding without accessing the symbols. They’ll be outside, painted in LED-visible-only materials.”

“Then we... I have to... get...” Sam has to get some air into his lungs, is what Sam has to do. He just can’t seem to manage it, just now. “Get out...”

“Sam?”

“M’fine,” Sam rasps. “It’s... we just need to... get out of here...”

“Sammy, hey, hey.”

It’s kind of funny, how it works in the exact same way it did with future-Dean. Sam’s visible distress snaps Dean out of his own angst faster than anything else could; Dean’s crouched in front of Sam moments later, one hand on his knee and the other on his shoulder, finally, finally meeting his gaze properly.

It’s practically the same position future-Dean adopted, but Dean’s wide green eyes are stern when they lock onto his.

“Sammy. Breathe.”

It’s the big-brother tone Sam feared he might never hear again, if Dean found out about him.

He feels the tears spill and can’t to anything about it, can’t hold his body up anymore either and feels himself tip forward into his brother. His forehead rests on Dean’s shoulder and he lets go of everything he’s been bottling up for decades, shaking with exhaustion.

 

\- 23 -

They don’t talk it through.

They end up holding each other for a long time and Sam cries into Dean’s dirty plaid shirt for most of it. Dean has the chance to slowly, reluctantly chew through everything that happened since Castiel had to shield his eyes from whatever was happening inside the cabin.

He doesn’t hate Sam, of course. Nothing could make him not love Sam. Not even this.

But his need to kill his future-self still boils in his gut. He can’t bring himself to feel disgusted or afraid of his brother when he thinks about Sam wanting to... do stuff to him, but all it takes is the image of future-Dean laying a hand on his little brother and he’s frothing at the mouth, ready for murder.

And that’s how Risa finds them. She barges in by kicking the door down again with a loud slam. She’s not alone, though.

“Jo!”

Sam wrenched away from Dean as soon as he heard the noise and Dean realises, a little stunned, that he hasn’t held Sam in his arms for months and he would shove Jo carelessly back outside to have it continue.

This post-apocalyptic version of Jo has cut her hair short, to a practical pixie-style that barely reaches her ears. It looks dirty and unkempt, and she herself is pale but her arms have muscles Dean doesn’t remember from ’09.

“I’m here to take Dean to the dining hall,” she starts to say, or declare. But her gaze is fixed on Sam. “I...”

Risa’s head falls forward in exhasperation. “Let me guess, you’re also about to have a breakdown over the existence of this random—“

But Jo is already striding across the room and pushes Dean aside to throw her arms around Sam’s neck.

*

The reaction when Dean walks into the dining hall is less dramatic than he’d been expecting. He figures fighting the croats on a daily basis has innured these people from true shock; there are no gasps, no yells, no sudden panicked murmurs. Just silence.

Risa walks ahead and leaves him to fend for himself as soon as the door rattles shut behind them (she’d offered Jo the chance to stay behind with Sam and Jo took it instantly).

The people staring at him are a mixed bunch, but the predominant age-range doesn’t extend much past fifty or go lower than twenty even though there are easily over a hundred folks congregated inside the vast enclosure. Most are standing but a few have perched on the long benches and endless picnic tables, probably to get a better look at their leader.

Except, everyone is craning their necks to stare at their leader’s clone right now.

“He’s me from the past, and he’s here with us due to, uh, unclear circumstances,” Future-him is saying. He’s standing on the wooden platform from which Camp Counselors must have supervised meals way back before the world ended. Castiel is behind him and a little to the side, looking pensive and conflicted and actually the closest to his angelic persona he’s done this entire time.

“As you can see, we look the same.” Future-Dean makes a vague, uncomfortable hand-motion between them. “But his presence here doesn’t change anything. I’m still me, and I’m still running this joint. If you have any questions, you come to me. He’ll be hangin’ around for a while, but he has no power here. You need somethin’ done? You can put him to work. He tries to pretend he’s me? Ask him about Albuquerque.”

A frisson of amusement seems to pass through the crowd. Dean spends the whole walk to the front scanning his surroundings with his peripheral vision in case he spots Ellen, Rufus or any other familiar faces, but is unsuccessful. He doesn’t recognize anyone else besides Cas and Bobby.

“Any questions?”

Dean slows his steps as he approaches the front line but future-him makes an unequivocal nod for him to join him on the platform. He considers not obliging, but thinks better of it. No one asks anything while he strides over to the dais and hoists himself up one-handed.

“Now, there’s one more thing before we get back to work.”

Future-Dean clasps his hands behind his back, legs set apart authoritatively. The pale sunlight streams in from high windows on one side of the building only, and when he turns his head just right half his face is almost obscured by shadow. All those factors serve to mask the way his expression has changed from the onlookers, but Dean is standing close enough that he can’t miss it.

“We picked up someone else, besides this Dean. A man called Sam.”

The name obviously doesn’t mean much to anyone here.

“Sam isn’t here right now because he’s... special.”

The way that word rolls off future-Dean’s tongue makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end.

“Sam is vulnerable to Lucifer in ways that go beyond what we have had to deal with so far. He’s no delicate flower, mind you, but he has to be protected for reasons that don’t apply to the rest of us.”

“Is he in the bunker?” someone calls.

Future-Dean nods. “Good guess, Kevin. But the cabin ain’t gonna be the only angel-proof building in this camp from now on.”

Murmurs erupt immediately at that statement, but die down after only a few seconds and another dead-eyed look from future-Dean.

“That’s right; we’re gonna start adding some angel-proofing decor to this campsite. Cas is gonna be directing you in teams and I’mma need a minimum of twenty volunteers to divide up the work. We’re gonna do concentric circles with the bunker at the center, and expand daily...”

He goes off into technicalities but Dean stops paying attention. This crowd is going to do exactly as future-Dean says, and tomorrow morning when Zachariah tries to take them back he will find his powers wanting.

They are going to be trapped here for as long as future-Dean can hold them, and even as he keeps detailing how they are going to arrange night and day-shifts to work around the clock Dean sees it in his mind’s eye; their prison is going to be an ever-expanding radius of sanctified ground for Sam to walk on. 

 


	4. IV

\- 24 -

Jo has Sam tell the story twice and still looks disbelieving when he starts to repeat it for a third time.

They sit next to each other on the mattress and it’s a different dynamic from what Sam had with the Jo he’s known in the past. He’s so used to being the more experienced hunter, besides being physically bigger than her (and there’s the way Meg used his body to assault her and all) that the couple of years age difference felt accentuated before. This Jo, who has obviously faced the deepest horrors in the world and come out on the other side, is looking at Sam like _she’s_ going to be the one protecting _him_.

Obviously, in Sam’s retelling there is some heavy editing of the past couple of hours, but it actually feels pretty great to talk to her about future-Dean and to contrast his impressions of him with hers. It sounds like he’s definitely a whole other person, and apparently Jo _hates_ him.

“He’s reckless, unemotional, unapproachable, obsessed with killing Lucifer—“ SLAM. “—masochistic, unwilling to delegate, overworked—“

“Gee, tell him how you really feel about me, Jo.”

Jo glares at the two Deans who are walking on the fallen door into the cramped cabin. “He doesn’t listen to his deputies, he’s hard to talk to, he has _no_ regard for his own wellbeing...”

Real-Dean is smirking like he just won a contest, but future-Dean just clenches his jaw and slants a gaze at Sam. There’s a moment after Jo tauntingly trails off where they all look at him and he just keeps looking at Sam like he’s forgotten where he is.

Then the moment passes and he grunts like he was thinking of rolling his eyes.

“It’s taken Jo four years to cultivate her attitude.”

“Actually, it happened spontaneously. About five minutes after you turned into a soulless douche,” Jo shoots back. Sam’s starting to understand Risa’s disposition a little better, maybe.

“Whatever. Leave us, c’mon.”

Jo turns back to Sam. “You good?” she asks.

“Seriously...?” Sam’s Dean asks, but she doesn’t get up until Sam shoots her something close to an honest smile.

“It was good to see you, Sam. We’ll catch up later.”

“Yeah, yeah... definitely.”

She trots out with a nod to past-Dean and ignores her boss entirely.

Future-Dean just sighs. “Sam, the camp’s been updated on this here situation. It’s gonna be okay. I think that by tomorrow we’ll have a perimeter—“

“But—“

“It’s not up for discussion,” future-Dean interrupts.

Sam still isn’t sure how this man felt about what happened between them, but a part of him knows it would be simplistic to say what happened was only _about_ the both of them.

“If you let us go back we can do things right,” Sam tries again. “We can fix the timeline—“

“No, Sam. You’re not going anywhere.” He shoots past-Dean a disdainful look. “Him, on the other hand...”

 

\- 25 -

Future-Dean calls Chuck and Annie inside, and because Risa took Dean’s gun on their way to the main hall he has no goddamn choice but to follow them back out.

“Sammy, you need me you yell, okay?” he says, digging his heels into the dry earth and ripping up brown dead grass. “I’ll come back for you. I’ll do whatever, I promise.”

Sam just clenches his jaw and nods from behind the doorway.

When future-Dean bends over to pick up the door again Dean wrenches out of Annie’s grasp and runs back to the cabin entrance.

“You touch a goddamn hair on his head and I swear—“

“I’m still considering whether I’m letting you stay in this timeline, genius,” future-Dean says calmly. “You might wanna reconsider the attitude.”

“You hurt Sam, you might be reconsidering the use of your hands,” Dean spits, frustrated at his lack of creativity in a pinch as he is made to watch the rickety wood thump back into place.

“He’s not going to hurt Sam,” Annie says.

Dean glares at her. At least he has someone else to glare at.

“The fuck do you know.”

She arches a suspiciously well-plucked eyebrow. “I saw the way he was looking at that kid,” she says conversationally. “He might kill _you_ , but he’s not going to hurt little Sam for as long as he lives.”

“Well he’s not gonna live very long if he does—“

“Yeah yeah, you’re just as badass and batshit crazy as he is, I get it,” she shoves him tiredly away and Chuck half-hovers, half-accompanies them back to future-Dean’s quarters.

“I’m so sorry about all this, Dean. Certainly Sam’s presence has made this very compelling but it’s somewhat of a mess, isn’t it?”

Dean narrowly avoids stepping on a puddle and doesn’t answer.

A mess. Yeah.

Zachariah is going to take him back alone. Future-Dean’s threat wasn’t a threat; it makes perfect sense. He can have his fucked up prisoner-jailor scenario play out for as long as he’s able to keep Sam locked up, and he’ll eliminate the only sane person in this entire campsite without having to do more than keep Dean out of the angel-proof grounds.

“Hey! Clone-Dean!”

The accented voice belongs to the British guy who’d stood behind the machine gun during their capture. He’s not the only one walking around; the camp filled with people after the main hall meeting and, despite a distinct lack of cheer, it still feels like a group of soldiers. No one here seems to have given up on fighting, except maybe Castiel.

And future-Dean.

“You’re the reason we got the Colt for nothing, huh,” the guy says. He’s dressed in army overalls, almost as tall as Dean, and looks to be of Indian descent.

“It wasn’t exactly _him_ , Nate,” Chuck answers with a grimace.

Annie looks around them at the people slowing their steps as they walk by and rolls her eyes. “We should keep moving.”

“I’ll come with,” Nate offers generously.

The three of them walk Dean all the way back to future-Dean’s cabin and once inside Nate handcuffs him to his original pipe again.

“Is your boyfriend still in the bunker?”

“Yes,” Annie says before Dean can answer.

At the look on Dean’s face, Nate gives him a businesslike wink. “We’re not killers. Relax. If he’s vulnerable to Lucifer he probably has something the boss wants, but as soon as Dean gets it he’ll set the tall guy free. He said his name was Sam, right?”

“Yup,” says Chuck.

“Yeah. Sam’s gonna be just fine, mate.”

 

\- 26 -

The door barely lets any of the evening light into the room, and the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling isn’t at full capacity. Future-Dean’s face is obscured by shadow when he’s looking down at the floor instead of at Sam.

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he says.

Sam walks to the furthest wall instead of sitting down on the bed, too aware of the similarities between this scene and the last time they were alone.

“I figured.”

“Sam...” Finally, he looks up at Sam. His stubble is almost at the point where it might be called a beard, but not yet. A few hours ago it rasped against Sam’s cheek in the best way. “What was... that. Before.”

“What.”

Sam doesn’t know what it was either. But he can feel it even now, the energy between them. He knows future-Dean feels it too. He doesn’t understand it but he wants so badly to surrender to the darkness—

“You wanted that from me,” future-Dean says instead. “Since when?”

He pauses like he’s waiting for an answer, but Sam can’t bring himself to give him one.

“The whole time?” he prompts, eyes widening infinitesimally.

It feels like a superpower; being the only one who can control him, get him to break character.

“Since I understood what want was,” Sam says finally. His instinct is to put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and hunch his shoulders apologetically, but he tries to stand tall.

Future-Dean just nods and stays where he is.

“I...” He clears his throat roughly. “Since you... since Lucifer...”

Sam gives him time.

“I kept dreaming I found you. And when I did I... all I wanted to do was...” he clenches his fist and doesn’t say anything else, but the look in his eyes is something Sam knows intimately. And it’s not because of how intimately he knows his brother; it’s because Sam felt like this for four months while he succumbed to demon blood in his mindless search for Dean.

He understands this version of Dean because all he wanted to do when he found his brother in that motel room (with Ruby and Bobby watching) was crush Dean to his chest and then kiss him—devour him until neither of them could remember their names.

There should be limits to how you want to express your love to a sibling, but Sam never met his. And that’s why he doesn’t say: “I get it.”

He says: “What did you want to do?”

Future-Dean is looking down at his clenched fist, the lightbulb throwing the shadows of his eyelashes over his cheekbones and creating a stupidly gorgeous portrait.

“Dean,” Sam says.

Future-Dean shakes his head.

“Dean,” Sam says again, anticipatory this time.

“I don’t want to hurt—“

“You’d never. I know you’d never.” He doesn’t know.

He just doesn’t care.

“Sammy...”

“Please.”

As soon as that one syllable leaves Sam’s lips the man explodes into motion, striding over to Sam and crashing into him. Their combined momentum flattens him against the wall, but the hand fisted in Sam’s hair softens the blow to the back of his head. Dean latches onto him like an attack, thrusting his tongue into Sam’s mouth and plastering Sam’s back to the brick.

When an impatient knee is thrust between his legs Sam makes a soft noise of relief and Dean answers him with a grunt of desperation. The thigh holster straps add to the rough friction with every change in pressure.

“God,” Dean huffs, panting. “God.”

“I...” Sam is so hard he hurts and he wants to disappear into this, he just wants to dissolve. “Ah, please...”

Dean quickly gets a hand rubbing over Sam’s fly and roughly shoves his other forearm and elbow behind Sam’s back to enclose his body more firmly in his hold. “Like that?” he mutters, fluttering his tongue under Sam’s jaw and suckling at his earlobe with dizzying gentleness.

Sam’s hands clench around the fabric of Dean’s forest-green jacket and he tries to tug it off, but he barely gets it past Dean’s broad shoulders; they are pressed up against each other, too close. Then Dean scrapes his teeth over Sam’s clavicle and Sam’s arms lose their strength anyway.

“Like...?” Dean pants, an echo of his earlier question. He’s breathing like a bull about to enter a rink. “Sammy...”

Sam restlessly shifts his hips to ride Dean’s thigh and press into his hand. He’s about to—two seconds in and too overwhelmed to resist the tide about to sweep him over, he’s going to...

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon...” Dean rubs his palm urgently against Sam’s fly and bites his neck, the hand that’s still in Sam’s hair clenching tight, like he’s also close. “God, Sammy, c’mon...”

Sam registers stupidly late that Dean is riding the cut of his hip, their proportions aligning them perfectly. “Shit,” he hisses, and reaches a hand around to grab under the globe of Dean’s ass and shove him even closer. “Fuck, _Dean_...”

“Yeah, yeah... oh my god, yeah...” Dean’s voice sounds shaky and grateful, but his body is pure solid muscle when he takes Sam’s move as encouragement and starts to thrust in earnest.

“Want...” Sam pants, but can barely get the words out. He’s so close, he can’t believe this is happening; Dean’s lips are so _soft_ , after all this time, he always knew they would be but—“Want...”

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want, s'yours Sammy—" Dean replies, mindless.

"Come... come on me..."

Suddenly Dean’s movements falter and his breath hitches, legs locking. “G-God, oh God...” The grip on Sam’s hair tightens even further and Dean’s hips stutter-stop their rhythm. “Sammy, _f-fuck_.”

His eyes are huge with surprise and he gapes at Sam like he's never had an orgasm before.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, still catching his breath. “Sammy, I...”

But after only a couple of seconds he shakes his head as though to clear it, not giving himself a moment to enjoy his release. He resumes his ministrations to Sam's clothed dick almost instantly even though he's definitely clumsier and rougher for it. “C’mon... you were close, right? You're almost there huh?”

The pressure feels achingly good but what has Sam's dick twitching anticipatorily is the fact that he made Dean come. He can't believe—Dean shot his load into his fucking underwear because of something he _said_. He's drunk on power, he’s invincible—

“C’mon Sammy, I got you, s’just you and me here c’mon, I got you, I’ve got you, I have you—“

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, his legs weakening and his sight fading with how... damn... close...

SLAM.

 

\- 27 -

Dean feels like he’s been shot. He’s allowed to make that comparison because he’s been shot plenty of times before.

He can’t make a sound, his lungs cut off his air supply and the horror is too great.

Behind him, Castiel draws in a sharp breath.

“Get out,” his own baritone thunders at him, slapping an open palm against the wall by Sam’s head as though to hide him from view.

Sam whimpers and closes his eyes, like he’s hoping to wake up from a nightmare. Dean wishes he shared that same hope.

“Get the _fuck_ out, past-me.”

Dean raises the gun and points it square it his future-self’s back.

“Dean...” Castiel had been the one to come and get him out. He’d only said ‘We better hurry’ and handed Dean a paperclip, but that’s all he’d needed to say. Now Dean sees why, and if Castiel thought there was any hope left for a peaceful resolution he must be high again.

“Step away from him.”

Sam is crying. He hasn’t opened his eyes but his cheeks are shining with tears.

“Step the _fuck_ away.”

Future-Dean looks over his shoulder and his face is contorted with rage, but his lips are wet with spit. Dean makes sure he’s watching before he pointedly flicks the gun safety off.

“You think I’m scared of you?” future-Dean growls, sounding almost incredulous.

“I think that would be wise,” Castiel murmurs, one hand half-extended like he's a mime with an invisible wall; a placating gesture that is doing no one in the room any good.

“Listen to your deputy, you son of a bitch.”

Future-him turns back around and mutters something soft and gentle at Sam. Dean almost shoots right then; would have pulled the trigger if there wasn’t a risk of the bullet passing through him and into his brother.

Sam mutters quietly back and shakes his head, lifting a sleeve to swipe across his face. He’s still breathing hard. It’s everything Dean hates right before his eyes; intimacy between Sam and some stranger, someone who isn’t Dean. Something ugly in Dean’s gut wants to—replace his future self with his own body. To be Sam’s shield and anchor at the same time.

They are still pressed together.

“I said _move_!” explodes out from his chest, the words ragged with desperation.

At long last, future-Dean peels himself away from Sam and turns to face Dean fully. He stands in front of Sam like a guard.

Dean keeps the gun aimed right at his chest.

He doesn’t even know what he wants. He needed future-him to _not be touching Sam_ but now he’s practically at a loss. He wants future-Dean out of the cabin and he wants Sam to look at him and more than anything he wants to know exactly what was happening behind the closed door before he brought it down. For a long moment that’s all he can think about, actually—what exactly were they doing this whole time? ‘Cause it sure as hell seems like they may have done more than make out. Did they?

“What?” future-Dean grunts. “You had your little hissy-fit, now what?”

“Now you get out.”

Future-Dean tut-tuts, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. Tell me, _Dean_ ,” He puts a mocking emphasis on the use of his own name. “Do you ever think about anyone besides yourself?”

Dean almost bursts out laughing. His job is about saving people, his life is about his brother, his body is an angel’s vessel, his soul was broken in Hell. Nothing in his world is truly _his_ , and this asshole has the _cojones_ to call him selfish?

“You kiddin’ me? What the fuck do you think—“

“You think I don’t remember my mindset during your time? Huh? Post-Hell, blaming Sam for letting Lucifer out when you were the one who broke the first seal, being called the Righteous Man every five freaking minutes... I remember feeling so goddamn righteous.”

“Dean, I don’t think this is going to get you _not_ shot...” Castiel puts in, but future-Dean silences him with a look.

“Telling Sam you can’t forgive him for Ruby. God,” he snorts. “You’re such a piece of shit. And now you want to make Sam’s needs about you _again_?”

Sam is staring blankly at the floor and looks to be unconsciously biting the inside of his cheek. He’s still crying silently, which is unlike him. Sam’s usually a messy crier; ends up with spit and snot all over him, ends up needing Dean to clean him up sometimes.

Future-Dean walks up to him, pushes Dean’s gun-arm away and gets right up in Dean’s face.

Dean stares at his own mug; the weird way in which it’s not at all like looking in a mirror. How easy it is to read his tells, his weaknesses, from up close. How his pupils are dilated; how his stubble somehow draws more attention to his swollen, puffy lips.

“You’re a monster,” Dean breathes.

“You have no _fucking_ idea.” Future-him grips the front of Dean’s shirt with both hands, and starts slowly twisting to tighten the sleeves to a painful degree. Dean still doesn’t drop the gun. “No idea what I’ve been through. You don’t know... seventeen hours? Huh?” He’s practically vibrating with barely contained anger. “You think seventeen fucking hours is something? _Anything_?”

In an abrupt move he shoves Dean back hard enough that Dean stumbles.

“Seventeen hours is nothing. Forty years in Hell? Hell was... I knew Sammy was safe. _This_ is Hell. Every fucking day. This right here...” he motions at the doorframe Castiel is just outside of, where one can tell the sun is setting and the rest of the camp must be getting ready to sleep or start a night shift. “Waking up to this world without him was the real Hell all along, man. So there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I’ll take him any way he lets me. Anything he wants, I’m prepared to give— _anything_. And it’s not—I _want_ to give it to him. I want it as much as he does. More than he does.”

“Dean.”

They both whirl around to look at Sam.

Sam is looking at future-Dean, not at him, and for a moment Dean’s heart stops.

But then, feet planted firmly on the ground, Sam says:

“Go.”

Future-Dean exhales sharply and takes a step back. He levels a solemn look at Sam and only says: “You sure?”

Sam nods. “Go,” he repeats firmly.

And just like that, future-Dean goes, taking Castiel with him.

 

\- 28 –

Even as Dean shoves the door back into place Sam thunks his head against the wall and lets his legs collapse under him. He slides down with a rustle of overworn fabric and stringy, dirty, messed-up hair.

There have been many moments in his life where he’s questioned the actions that brought him to an insane situation, but this one wins by a landslide.

Dean turns to look at him and Sam’s dick twitches innapropriately at the thought of those same thick, solid thighs he was riding (his balls are sore, but the tears really killed the vibe before he could come). Dean makes him so crazy.

“So...” Dean starts.

“Why do you care so much?” Sam mutters.

Dean gapes at him. “Why do I care so... he’s _me_.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t. This whole time, you keep saying how he’s crazy, how he’s nothing like you.”

“I...” Dean flounders, looking all around him like he’s going to find the words he’s searching for written mid-air. “But you’re...” Finally he shakes his head. “No, _no_ , it’s _not_ weird that I’m not okay with this.”

“What is your problem, Dean?”

Dean laughs, a touch hysterical. “My problem?” He flicks the safety back on the gun and tosses it onto the mattress a few feet away. “ _My_ problem?” He walks up to where Sam is half squatting against the wall, half-sitting on the floor.

Sam forces himself to look up at his brother defiantly. “You can blame the demon blood if it makes you feel better,” he says. “I do.”

“Sammy... what did he _do_ to you?”

Sam wishes future-Dean had gotten to do a lot more than he did. “He did what I asked.”

In the ways that count, it’s the truth.

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said. Blame the demon blood.” The words hurt to say but he has to get them out. For Dean, if for nothing else. “Future-you is clearly nuts so that’s justifiable too. You don’t have to feel...” The word ‘threatened’ comes to mind, but would hardly be fitting here. “... guilty. It makes sense, if you think about it.”

Dean stands over him, chest heaving, for a long moment. His eyebrows slant curiously and it takes Sam an embarrassing amout of time to realize... Dean looks sad.

“When did I fuck this up, Sammy?” he whispers. “Was there one moment? Or was it a bunch of them?”

Sam shakes his head. “Wasn’t you.”

“It so was.”

Amazingly, a corner of Sam’s mouth wants to lift up at that.

“Wasn’t just you,” he amends.

Dean sits down in front of him with his legs crossed Indian-style. He waits to make sure Sam is looking straight into his eyes before he speaks and, because he’s sitting right under the lightbulb and tipping his head up slightly, his face is perfectly illuminated. His eyes are glowing jewel-green, his eyelashes framing them in dusted gold.

He is, and always has been, the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says.

His mouth is a solemn line and his shoulders are drawn back with resolve. It’s the sincere, heartfelt apology Sam doesn’t deserve, and never thought he’d hear.

“I’m sorry too, Dean.”

He just wants Dean to see him. It’s all he ever wanted, for Dean to look at him and _see_ him, and for a few years he had that and squandered it, but now...

“I’m sorry for this, too. For him.”

Dean blinks. “I... guess there’s nothing to be sorry for, in this case.” But he doesn’t sound like he believes what he’s saying. “I mean, I already told you I don’t... if you feel that way, that doesn’t change what I feel.”

He shuffles uncomfortably, clearly trying to get back to the measured tone he was just using. Strangely, it doesn’t sound like he quite believes that last statement, either.

“I get that it’s weird,” Sam says, although it felt so... pure, to abandon himself to future-Dean’s frenzied touches. Like relief. God, if he could just go back to finish it, just once... “You’re not crazy for thinking it’s super fucking weird.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Dean smirks a little.

Sam smiles tentatively back.

The moment is more fragile than a soap-bubble in a hurricane.

 

\- 29 –

... So of course Dean has to go ahead and ruin it.

“So what happened?” he blurts out.

Sam holds his smile for a fraction of a second longer as he processes Dean’s question. “Hm?”

It’s like an illness, this need to know. He can’t control it. He just—he can’t control it.

“What happened? Before I got here.”

Sam’s smile slides right off his tired face. His five o’clock shadow makes his lips look pinker, maybe even fuller as well. The same thing he noticed about future-Dean’s, before. How hard were they sucking face—or was that not the only thing Sam was sucking? A bolt of heat shoots through Dean at the possibility and he must be seconds from the accompanying nausea. Christ.

“Are you serious?”

Dean is moments away from losing it right after getting it back. He needs to know exactly what they did, is that so bad? For some reason he can’t move on without this information. Sue him.

“Yeah. C’mon, just...” he makes an impatient hand-motion, and Sam looks down at his hand like it’s an alien appendage.

Obviously, his little brother doesn’t answer.

“Sam,” Dean snaps. He _needs_ to get this out of the way. “Seriously, what... what were you doing?”

Sam’s mouth drops open, which is not helping Dean keep his imagination in PG land.

“Sammy, c’mon.”

“... _Why_?”

“I just...” he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. “Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Sammy, seriously—“ His hand lands on Sam’s knee and Sam flinches like he got an electric shock.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sam scrambles upright and stumbles over to the mattress, slumping down on it. His massive bulk elicits a loud shriek from the rusty springs. Dean follows his movements and turns with him, unable to stop his gaze from flickering to Sam’s crotch to check for—a wet spot, a tent, what?

“S’not, actually. I left you two alone for like, a whole fifteen minutes. Lots of time to...”

He ends the sentence like a prompt, hoping Sam will fill in the blanks. Sam doesn’t and Dean wants to scream in frustration. Is this going to be the thing that drives him over the edge? Why does he need to know so bad, anyway?

“Dean. Take a minute to think about what you’re asking me, please.” Sam looks earnest, reasonable; his huge palms are extended in a placating gesture. His fingers are so long and... thick.

Dean isn’t feeling very reasonable right now.

“Did he...” he starts, barely any air left in his chest to form the words at this point—all the space has been taken up by this gnawing need to _know_.

To know.

To...

He remembers, unbidden, his future self’s words from earlier today: “ _Don’t you remember what our siren said?_ ”

_I should be your little brother..._

He wants to kill future-Dean for touching Sam, but Sam wants someone to touch him.

“Did he finish you off?”

Sam gapes at him.

“If he... if you’re that hard up for me...” Dean doesn’t know what he’s saying. He can hear the words coming out of his mouth but he’s not sure he makes sense of them.

“Dean. I’d never ask you to— _he_ wanted to—“

“So he did it?”

Sam opens his mouth but no answers come out. His cheeks are splotchy pink and flushed.

“Gave you the time of your life, huh? I mean, you said you’ve wanted this forever, was it everything you dreamed it would be?”

At that, Sam looks mortified. “Why...” he asks, hoarse. “Why are you doing this.”

Dean gets up on his knees, unable to help himself, unable to stop. “Well? Was it good? ‘Cause if it’s me you’ve been wanting this whole time, he was kind of acting as a substitute, right? Or is it just my body, and does any version count?”

“Shut up.”

“No, c’mon Sammy, I told you it’s okay. I’m genuinely—“ This isn’t just curiosity. “—I want to know.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Did he make it good—“

“Stop it!”

“Did he make it good or do you still want the real thing!”

 

\- 29 -

Dean’s yell reverbrates in the small room like a thunderclap.

Sam’s entire body feels like a bruise and it’s not because he was drugged this morning; Dean’s verbal assault has left him emotionally and physically exhausted and he can’t take any more, this night is over, he is _done_.

“What?” he whispers. His voice is shot and, to be fair, he has cried a lot more than usual in the past few hours.

The look on Dean’s face would have been entertaining under any other circumstances.

“I... I mean...” He definitely has no idea what he means, if the panic in his eyes is any indication. “I...” He looks up at Sam like Sam’s going to be the one to get him out of this. “Hell, if you were so hard up that you’d take soulless, apocalypse-me... you could have asked.”

Sam waits for the punchline, but nothing else seems to be forthcoming. “No, I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t.”

“Not... not back in our world. Maybe. But...” Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck; one of his nervous tells. “You still want me, right? Even after he... I interrupted you guys. Right?”

His gaze is pleading but if he’s waiting for Sam to answer the question, he can keep waiting.

“I interrupted, so you hadn’t finished,” Dean concludes.

He must catch a flicker of something in Sam’s expression because he sits up straight, eyes narrowed.

“So you’re all hard-up for me and he left you hanging. He didn’t... he didn’t make it good. He didn’t do it at all.”

Sam is in love with Dean. Sam has been in love with Dean for ever. But for all that he’s known his brother to be mean to him, angry at him, disappointed in him, even... he never imagined Dean to be so blatantly _cruel_.

He doesn’t have the energy to ask him to stop again, though. He’ll just sit on this rusty bed and take it, and maybe when Dean’s done Sam will have figured out how to love him a little less, so that it hurts a little less.

Dean’s getting up, going over to join Sam on the bed. Sam almost leaves the second Dean’s weight draws another groan from the mattress. Almost.

“You still want me, right? That doesn’t just go away in an hour.”

Sam sighs tiredly and still refuses to answer. Why indulge Dean’s sudden taunting? Right after he’d apologized, too...

“I’ll do it.”

Sam honestly doesn’t understand what Dean is saying at first.

“You’ll do wh—“

Dean’s hand on his thigh steals his voice.

“He couldn’t give you what you needed, right?”

Sam’s heart-rate launches into overdrive and suddenly he’s back in it, he’s wide awake. “Dean, I'm not asking you to do anything."

"But you need me to."

"What the hell are you...”

Dean slides up higher with intent, bottle-green irises somehow still brightly lit, lips parted. His hand is hot and large, palm so familiar, gesture so impossibly new.

“Dean...” Sam whispers, but he can’t pull away. He just can’t.

Dean gets to the bulge in the front of Sam’s jeans and yeah, Sam’s iron-hard for it. “Jesus,” Dean mutters.

Sam can’t do more than choke down the whine catching in his throat. He wants so badly to shove his own hand over Dean’s down there and hump it until he comes, he wants to kiss Dean’s plush lips because he must have imagined how soft they were, he _must_ have... He needs Dean to explain what the hell this is, because he’s so confused and turned on and—

“Fuck, Sammy, you’re fucking huge.”

Dean repositions himself on the bed and just keeps caressing the outline of Sam’s dick, mapping it tip to shaft all the way down to his balls.

A whimper escapes Sam’s lips when Dean flattens his palm over his crotch again like he’s trying to measure it. Dean’s hand is warm light pressure and it’s _torture_.

Against his will, Sam brings a knee up on the mattress so he can spread his legs further. Dean’s gaze flies up to meet his gaze when he does it, and the stunned look on his face never really left. Why does Sam love him so much again?

“You’re dying for it, aren’t ya?” Dean says. He shifts his grip to actually give Sam some pressure and Sam is only (mostly) human, he can’t help the way his hips lift up, the way his head drops forward onto his chest.

“Yeah...” Dean shifts closer to him, close enough that their knees are practically overlapping but not close enough to slide into Sam’s lap. “C’mon Sammy, this is what you _really_ wanted.”

Sam glares up at him through his bangs. “I... wanted... to come...” he huffs, trying to feel annoyed but mostly just feeling horny and confused and pathetic. He hurts so bad, and Dean has to know it, Dean is feeling the evidence for himself.

Dean’s scrunched up forehead suddenly clears in surprise. Clearly he hadn’t expected that reply.

His lips are parted and his cheeks are red, like Sam slapped him.

Sam kind of wishes he could slap him.

 

\- 30 -

Sam is gorgeous.

Dean can’t believe he’s never had that explicit thought before but holy shit Sam is... _gorgeous_. He’s thought about it peripherally in the past, maybe. Certinaly he’s thought it from an angle, at a distance, from behind—and not just because Sam’s ass is amazing.

Sam is panting open-mouthed and all but writhing against Dean’s hand, and Dean knows he’s hardly giving him enough pressure to satisfy him but Sam is so fucking gorgeous it’s actually ridiculous.

“So you admit it?” Dean hears himself croak. “He didn’t make you come.”

Sam shakes his head, bangs falling over his eyes.

“Please...” he whispers, and when Dean's hand doesn't move fast enough Sam puts one of his gigantic paws over it, pressing them both into his erection. “Ah, there...” He sighs and grinds into Dean's palm, knees dropping open even wider. “Dean...”

Dean can’t feel his face. He’s on fire. “Christ, Sammy.”

He starts to move along with Sam, the heel of his hand rubbing over the increasingly humid head of Sam’s dick... Sam must be soaked in precome. Sam has dreamt about this since he was a kid--he must be fucking dying for it. He’s almost there already and it’s been _seconds_ , his eyes are closed...

Wait. If this has been about Dean the whole time, why isn’t Sam drinking him up? He’s been lusting after Dean for fucking ever, shouldn’t he be ecstatically staring up at Dean? Shouldn’t he cream himself at the first touch of Dean’s lips?

But. They haven’t kissed.

Dean shoves at Sam’s shoulder with his free hand and then nudges under his chin. “Hey. Look at me.”

Sam is still grinding his hips against their hands and he looks impatient. “What?”

That’s unacceptable.

Dean flicks his thumb against the wettest, hottest spot on Sam’s crotch and when Sam’s legs spasm he does it again. “Fuck, Dean, I...”

“Look at me,” Dean orders, leaning forward into him. He’s almost sitting in Sam’s lap.

Sam stares up at him, and they both watch Dean cup the side of Sam’s face and deliberately sink his hand in Sam’s hair. Sam’s eyelids droop with pleasure, but; “Look at me,” Dean grunts. Sam opens his eyes again with difficulty, the way he’s moving his hips jostling Dean’s current position.

“You’re almost there, yeah?” Dean mutters. “Just... just dying for it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah...” Sam hiccoughs, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Look at me,” Dean snaps, hand tightening in Sam’s hair. Sam whimpers, his hips snapping up and almost bucking Dean off the bed. Dean’s new seat officially constitutes as Sam’s lap, both their hands still sandwiched between them while rubbing Sam’s cock through the denim.

“You’re gonna come when I kiss you, aren’t you.”

Sam whimpers again, and the hand he’s using to press Dean’s against him slides lower, stabbing a finger into his—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean swears hoarsely, and rips his own hand away to angle Sam's head up. “You’re so fucking hot,” he gasps. But when he tips forward to try to kiss his brother they lose their balance.

Sam has to wrap both arms around Dean’s torso and they fall back onto the bed with a loud thump.

The gun clatters to the floor.

Dean can’t care, can’t wait any longer, he just lets the natural momentum lead him to Sam’s lips.

Their first kiss is a revelation.

Dean has to use his double-handed grip on Sam’s hair just to hold on as he has crisis after crisis, epiphany after epiphany, all of them from worshipping Sam’s mouth and trying to catch up with Sam’s frantic, ravenous pace—because the second their lips met Sam responded with what must have been the pent-up energy of years of want pouring out of him. Dean isn’t sure why he’s reacting the same way when he doesn’t share that excuse, but he dismisses all thought to give himself to rocking into Sam’s body, sucking and biting at Sam’s lips, relishing the building pressure at the base of his spine that he cant—quite—

“D-Dean,” Sam pants, pulling away to gulp in air. His hands started out at Dean’s lower back but they slid down to cup his ass and he’s shamelessly using his grip to hump Dean’s lower belly and get himself off. “Fuck, your _mouth_.”

Dean is about to impatiently dive in for more kisses (he doesn’t need compliments if they take time away from _Sam’s_ mouth) but Sam squeezes his asscheeks and the shift of fabric makes Dean’s wet boxers register for the first time. He’s dripping precome like a stream, and now that he thinks about it he's rocking down like his body thinks he’s fucking Sam already, he’s so fucking hard—has been hard enough to pound nails for God knows how long.

He abruptly realises, as Sam lets out a gruff ‘unh’ sound and squeezes his asscheeks again, that he’s going to come in point two seconds flat.

The time between that thought and the moment Sam captures his mouth again is infinitesimal, but when Sam thrusts his tongue into his mouth _Dean_ is the one who cries out once, twice, and comes violently in his jeans.

Sam pulls away and stares up at him.

“Did you just...?” he pants, eyes wide.

Dean shudders, unable to speak, still spasming and riding out his climax into the cut of Sam’s hip. He coughs out a hurt, desperate sound and squeezes his eyes shut with embarrassment.

“Fuck,” Sam hitches, chest heaving. “Fuck, Dean, God...”

With a hard shove Sam tosses Dean to the side and immediately climbs on top of him.

Dean can only pant and stare, shocked, ears still ringing with how fucking hard he came.

"You couldn't help it, huh?" Impatient, Sam grabs Dean’s legs and splays him open, positioning him like a limp doll so that he can use Dean’s thigh to frantically thrust against until he can get his release, but it must not be enough friction because grunts with frustration.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, still catching his breath. But Sam isn’t listening to him; he scrabbles clumsy fingers at his own fly and gets it undone.

"You came all over yourself," he mutters. "You just... just came all over yourself like a damn teenager, Dean..."

"I did..." Dean sobs. "I did, Sammy I--" Sam takes his dick out and it’s huge; thick and veiny and angry-red... and before he can start jerking off, Dean wraps a hand around it.

Sam lets out a sound that’s not a word and clamps his own hand over Dean’s, squeezing brutally hard. Dean’s dick twitches valiantly at the sight and feel of him—gorgeous, gorgeous, _gorgeous_.

“Y-yeah...” Sam sobs, falling forward and bracing himself on an arm next to Dean’s head. “Please, yeah...”

"You can fuck me, if you--"

Sam makes a choked-off groan and shoots, fingers interlaced with Dean’s and pumping furiously, come spattering Dean’s shirt all the way up to his neckline.

“Jesus,” Dean breathes, reverent. “C”mon, yeah, give me what you got, Sammy...”

Sam ‘ah’s and collapses on top of him, mouth right by Dean’s ear. Dean rubs his thumb over Sam’s dick to wring out the final aftershocks and just basks in the warmth and weight of Sam on top of him. Sam’s trembling, moaning needily into the mattress, completely abandoned to Dean’s mercy... and it’s everything Dean never knew he needed.

“Y-you’re...” he whispers. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Sam stills and goes quiet.

 

\- 31 -

Sam’s mind is a haze but through it he’s thinking that Dean just called him ‘perfect’.

He shifts his weight to lift himself up onto his forearms, hands at either side of Dean’s head.

“What?” he whispers, still breathing hard.

“I...” Dean blinks up at him. “I just...” he swallows. “You might have been onto somethin’, this whole time.”

Sam brushes a thumb along the curve of Dean’s ear. The freckles dotting his nose and cheeks are barely visible in this light, but Sam knows they are there.

“Is—is that okay? Are... you okay, Sammy?”

Sam takes a deep breath and Dean tenses under him.

“I’m starving, actually.”

They both snort with laughter.

“But seriously—I meant what I said, before. I’m... I’m so sorry.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

“And I was... I don’t want you touching him again.”

Dean made that pretty clear even before this happened, but now Sam dares to dream that the reason why his brother may have been so angry is... green-eyed.

“Okay. I just...” Couldn’t say no to any version of Dean that might want him back. But now he has a better reason not to say yes. “This isn’t just your extreme take on a two-man competition against yourself?”

“No.”

Dean pauses, slants a look up at Sam from under his lashes.

“ _Am_ I competing against him? For you?”

“...He’s you.”

Dean shakes his head firmly. “No he’s not. There are days where Cas can’t see his soul, Sam.”

“He’s just—he’s been through—“

“He lost you.” Dean reaches up to fist a hand in Sam’s hair again, the grip quickly edging towards painful. “He _lost_ you, Sammy.”

And Sam understands. Of course he does, because part of the kinship he felt with future-Dean was for this exact reason.

He drops back down on top of Dean so he isn’t looking into his eyes when he says, quiet:

“I wouldn’t be the same without you, either.”

 


	5. V

\- 32 -

They wake up because someone is screaming.

Dean sits bolt upright in the bed and is instantly alert. He shoves recent activities to the back of his mind along with the discomfort caused by the current state of his underwear.

“What’s going on?” Sam says, wiping a hand over his face.

“I don’t—“

The screams are getting louder. And multiplying.

They both exchange a quick look and leap out of the bed, Dean grabbing the fallen gun from the floor and taking point.

“Croats?” Sam suggests. “They could have broken in; it’s not like we got a good look at the perimeter, it might have—“

A nearby yell shuts him up and suddenly there’s a thump at the door and it starts to fall inward yet again.

SLAM.

“Sam! Dean!”

It’s Jo and Risa, and behind them are Chuck, Annie, Nate... and future-Dean.

Castiel is standing guard a couple of steps outside, and he’s ditched his poncho in favor of jeans, a dark grey shirt, and a machine-gun slung over his shoulder.

“You have to stay in there,” future-Dean calls over the noise, shoving his way inside first and obviously speaking only to Sam.

Dean tries but it’s hard to see anything past Castiel’s silouette because moonlight would be too much to ask for in the future, clearly. Pitch blackness and lots of noise are no help to gage the current situation.

“You can’t leave, okay? Promise me, Sammy.”

“What’s going—“

“It’s him,” Jo says. “Lucifer.”

Dean’s blood runs cold.

“Lucifer is here?”

“It’s because of Sam,” Risa says flatly. Every head turns to stare at her and she stares defiantly back, arms at either side of her like a visual ‘duh’. “ _You_ said he was especially vulnerable to Lucifer for some reason,” she motions at future-Dean. “And Cas said he was ‘still untouched by Lucifer’. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection.”

“What are you saying, Risa?” Nate asks, but the look of horror in his eyes says it’s practically a rethorical question. Everybody here knows what Risa is saying.

She fixes Sam with an accusing stare. “None of us have ever seen what he looks like, but I’d imagine the devil could use a spare suit. You know, in case he has to take one of them to the drycleaners?”

“Sam stays here,” future-Dean says.

“I—“

“Not a question, Sammy,” Dean mutters, resting a placating hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam shrugs it off, looking from one hunter to another--from one soldier to another.

“Why are you all here, then?” he asks the room at large. “What’s going on out there?”

“Croats, demons... you name it, that’s what’s going on,” Jo says, stance strangely restless. She glances at future-Dean and suddenly Dean knows why these people are here, and clearly so does Sam.

“If they got past the demon-wards you have to go,” Sam says. “Go out there, help the others.”

“And you’ll stay here?” future-Dean grunts.

Sam would never voluntarily sequester himself from a fight for his own sake, and future-Dean can’t have forgotten that.

“I... yes. But you all need to go back out there; I can take care of myself.”

Annie looks at future-Dean like she’s hoping he’ll issue a different order at Sam’s words, but for all her talk of ‘looks’ and interpreting future-Dean’s feelings for Sam, she must not understand how deep things go. Sam isn’t just a VIP, he’s the _only_ important person as far as Dean is concerned. As far as any iteration of Dean is concerned.

“I’m going, they are staying,” future-Dean tells Sam. “S’not up for discussion.”

“No, you can’t just—“

But future-Dean ignores Sam’s protests and turns to leave. Dean follows him out, jostling Nate on his way and nearly tripping over the fallen door in the process.

“Hey!”

Even standing at the doorway makes the yelling and gunshots sound horribly louder... and closer.

“Hey, _me_!”

Future-Dean is already a few paces away, and Castiel is going with him, but they both turn around at Dean’s shout. The reason Dean can see them now is a flickering, far-away light source that means one of the bungalows is on fire.

“What’re you gonna do?” Dean calls.

Future-Dean takes something out of his thigh-holster and raises it so Dean can see. Of course. He’d recognise that gun anywhere.

“I’m gonna kill the devil.”

Dean stares into his own eyes across the stretch of dead grass, and for a moment time slows down. The burning embers haven’t saturated the air yet and the cold wind that’s blowing has cleared the smog; he and future-Dean have an unimpeded view of each other.

Grimy, hard and resolute, future-Dean’s face is set with determination. He understands what he’s about to do, he knows the risks.

 _He’s half-dead. Sometimes... sometimes I can’t see his soul_.

Dean believes Castiel’s words from before, and has had ample evidence of the truth in them throughout the day. But right here, right now, they don’t apply. The light in his counterpart’s eyes is new, and it’s coming from within.

Neither of them says another word, but it doesn’t need to be said.

In that moment, they both finally agree on something.

 

\- 33 -

When Dean walks back into the now-crowded cabin Sam rounds on him immediately.

“I get why I’m here,” he lies, anxious. “I do, but we have to let these people get back out there, Dean.”

“This place is keeping them safe too, Sam.”

“It’s not up to either of you,” Jo says, walking over to the boarded-up window. “Sorry, boys.”

“People are _dying_!” Sam bursts out. “Your people!”

“You think we don’t know that?” Risa snaps. “You think we want to be here? You think any of us volunteered for this post? I don’t know you from Adam, man. I don’t get what’s so special about you.”

She stares up at Sam without a trace of fear, even knowing what she knows now about his relationship to Lucifer.

“I’m not—there’s nothing,” Sam says automatically. He flashes back to Azazel calling him one of his ‘special children’, to Ruby and her poisonous words, to the taste of demon blood slicking his lips. All the reasons why he’s the perfect vessel for the Devil.

And the truth is that the person who sees him as a force for good, the real reason Sam is special at all, is standing by the doorway so no one can get in or out.

CRACK. A loud splintering sound draws everyone’s attention back to Jo for a moment; she’s working on ripping the wooden planks away from the window.

“A little help, here?” she mutters over her shoulder.

Nate and Annie quickly move to do just that. Chuck makes a motion like he was going to assist them but ends up staying put. “They’ve got it,” he mutters.

“Why are you poking holes in our hiding place?” Dean grumbles.

“Because we could use the extra visibility and more than one vantage point?” Jo fires back. There’s an implied ‘duh’ at the end of that sentence.

Sam still hasn’t given up in his quest to get these people out of here. He knows he can get Risa to leave if she’s angry enough, and the others might follow her if she does—

“Incoming!” Dean yells abruptly, and fires his gun into the night. Sam squints to see past him and suddenly hears a blood-curdling scream, just a few feet away.

“Croats?” Jo shouts, leaping away from the half-cleared window to load her shotgun.

“Demons?” Chuck asks nervously.

Dean fires again and simply calls: “Both.”

Nate and Risa crowd the doorway at either side of him and start firing too. Sam grabs Chuck’s gun before the prophet even knows what happened and rushes over to Jo and Annie at the window.

It’s much brighter than it should be; dawn is easily a couple of hours away.

“Is that—“

“The main hall,” Jo sighs. “And cabins C and H.”

“The latrines are on fire, too,” Annie ads tonelessly.

The destruction happened in mere moments and Sam can only stare. Dark figures are rushing towards their little enclosure at different speeds but one thing is clear; this isn’t an easily defendable location. Cramming seven people inside doesn’t do much beyond slow the enemy down, one body at a—

“Dean!” Sam gasps, suddenly understanding. “Dean, where did he go?”

Across the room, Dean is taking turns at firing and reloading with Risa, Chuck and Nate, and it isn’t until he has to shift away from the door that he looks back at his brother.

“He has the Colt, Sam.”

“No...”

Sam glances out of the window just in time to shoot a croatoan victim who was getting too close. Jo shoots the one behind it a second later.

“He’s gonna get himself killed!”

“Comes with the job, kid,” Annie says, handing Jo a newly-loaded gun.

“You don’t understand—“ But she’s right, and he should have suspected it from the start, shouldn’t he? Future-Dean is still a version of Dean, how could he forget that? He’s still a self-sacrificing jerk with a hero complex who’s going to try and save everyone at his own cost.

At the thought of future-Dean dying, Sam feels his chest try to cave in.

“He didn’t...”

But he leaves the sentence unfinished, and nobody heard him speak this time anyway; a whisper doesn’t carry in the heat of battle.

_He didn’t say goodbye._

 

\- 34 -

“Jo! How many rounds do you guys have left?”

“I’m out!”

“I’m at five,” Annie calls back.

“Four,” Sam says, with the accompanying number of fingers.

They've been at it for a while now and the flow of croats doesn't seem to stop. Risa slapped a string of beef jerky in Dean's hand on their third rotation and that helped clear some of his dizziness, but he's a big guy and he hasn't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours; he's not at his best right now.

“We need more ammo.” Nate voices what they are all thinking.

“Where do you keep supplies?” Dean asks Chuck.

Risa is the one who answers. “There’s a storage unit not far from where we are now—are you suggesting an ammo run?”

“Better than sitting here with our fingers up our butts waiting to be killed off.”

“Okay then,” she says with a nod. Dean is surprised she agrees, but maybe he shouldn’t be. “It should be two of us, guys, no more and no less.”

“I can—“ Annie starts to say.

“Risa. It should be you and me.” Dean can tell from the look on Sam’s face that he wasn’t expecting his brother to volunteer.

Risa obviously didn’t either. “You want to go and leave your precious Sam here alone?”

Dean does _not_ have time for this shit. “He’s not gonna be alone. And no offense but I don’t trust any of you to come back.”

Nobody can object to that argument convincingly enough.

Chuck’s spare handheld had the most bullets left (seven) and Annie’s is second, so they trade guns with Dean and Risa. Before Dean can leave, Sam grabs his sleeve and tugs hard enough that Dean falls into him for a brief, crushing embrace.

“What, no kiss goodbye?” Dean mutters into Sam’s shoulder.

“Come back,” is all Sam says once they draw apart. His tone is a command.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, mock-saluting. And then he turns around quickly so Sam won’t see the pain bleed into his expression, but Risa does and, for once, chooses not to comment on it.

*

Dean hates counting bullets because it feels like a countdown of his last few moments on Earth no matter what he's hunting, but Risa is an amazing shot and they somehow make it through the croats crowding towards the bunker. They aren’t followed; maybe the logic of numbers told the croats to ignore two meals versus five.

“This way,” Risa hisses, sprinting in between the cabins and counting out loud. “... L... M... N... O...”

“Are we there y—“

“P! Here.” She skids to a halt and so does Dean; they moved away from the fires and visibility is worse now, but there are also no hostiles around that he can see. Risa rounds the corner between cabins P and Q and plasters herself to the wall. Dean follows her every step of the way.

They make it all the way to the door until a noise makes Dean grab Risa’s wrist and stop her from opening it.

It started out as a squeak, but then it happens again; a grind of metal against metal.

“Do you hear that?” Dean whispers.

Risa tugs her wrist away.

“That’s Bobby’s chair, moron. This is one of the only ground-level cabins.” She knocks on the door three times in an obviously predetermined interval and flings it open.

Nobody shoots her, so that’s something.

Dean rushes in after her and shuts the door behind him.

“Dean!”

“Past-Dean,” Risa clarifies.

Even if he didn't already know, Dean would be able to tell this bunker is only used for storage; there's barely any room to walk around given the amount of stuff piled around. Some of it is obviously camp supplies (plastic-wrapped blankets are heaped up in a corner and there are three boxes full of water filters) but a lot of the rest is personal. A stuffed animal of nondescript species is perched on top of an impractical three-legged stool; a whole section of the back area seems to be old discarded laptops and their useless chargers.

Bobby is sitting amidst stacks upon stacks of boxes (all labeled, all bullets). He’s holding a lantern in one hand and the biggest, baddest looking semi-automatic Dean ever saw braced against his opposite arm.

“Bobby. Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Dean.” Bobby smiles tiredly at him, and he looks genuinely happy to see Dean. “I thought I wouldn’t see you before they—where’s Sam?”

“Angel-proof bunker,” Risa interjects, already grabbing as many shells as her pockets will carry.

Bobby nods. “Okay. That’s... yeah, that might just work.”

Dean turns to start stuffing bullets into his pants as well, but just as his hand closes around a box of shotgun shells he hears it. A gunshot.

He couldn’t say why it’s distinctive other than that it’s an isolated, single shot. But it definitely happened right outside.

“Dean. Hurry the fuck up.”

But Dean can’t move, because suddenly he knows what’s happening just a few feet away from them even if he couldn’t justify that knowledge with an explanation. He knows who’s out there, and he has to know if they won.

“Dean... Dean, don’t—“

“You two go back without me.”

“Dean—“

He opens the door careful not to make a sound and slips out.

It was the Colt, he just knows it. Lucifer must be right here, he could be just... just around the corner...

 

\- 35 –

Cold. Harsh. Gelid.

It’s winter every day in Sam’s world.

Frost crackles even though there are no windowpanes and the ice is so cold it burns—Sam always envisioned flames in Hell, he’d seen those fiery pits everywhere in the lore.

But Hell is white, and it is freezing.

Sam knows because he lives there now.

Sometimes Sam is barely Sam anymore, because being disembodied and frozen and alone and trapped by the Devil is one way to lose your mind. Watching your own hands murder countless innocent people is another.

Since Detroit, Sam has existed as a pale light flickering in the tundra of his own personal Hell. He thinks, constantly; this is it, this is the end, the cold has seeped into my very existence and now I will finally cease to be.

But the Devil won’t let him.

And now there is Dean.

“Goodbye, you son-of-a-bitch.”

A gunshot.

A sigh.

Lucifer is pretending to be dissapointed, but really he’s feeling as close to a positive emotion as he is capable.

“Dean. Really. What did you expect?”

Sam’s mouth is being used to speak, but Sam can’t feel his jaw move, can’t sense his tongue articulate the words. Lucifer lets him experience his own body when he’s feeling particularly powerful or particularly in control of a situation he knows Sam will not enjoy. Maybe this time—just to see Dean through his own eyes again, just once—

“I...” Dean doesn’t seem to have an answer.

“I have to admit... I am impressed. You got this far, Dean. You shot your own brother, even if your aim is somewhat... sub-par.”

Dean missed his shot? No way. He can’t have been so desperate as to shoot Lucifer somewhere that wouldn’t kill his vessel—Dean knows killing the vessel is the most sure-fire way of killing it’s host. Dean knows that, and Dean was never naive.

Dean wouldn’t risk it just on the off-chance he could still save what’s left of Sam, would he?

Sam wishes he could see.

“Let me talk to him.”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Of course. Sam remembers now. He sacrificed himself and the world to stop Lucifer from killing Dean.

“Why are you here? You have your fucked-up utopia. You won. What do you want from—“

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to play dumb, now.” Lucifer uses Sam’s muscles to tilt his head sideways curiously, and Sam wrestles for another inch of control, just to set the scene, just to take a peek—

“I’m not—“

“I think you know what I want, Dean. And if you don’t give him to me right now I’m just going to have to kill a lot more people to take him.”

The white prison tries to keep him in. Sam punches walls he can’t feel and screams without making a sound.

“ _Why_?”

There’s a light breeze in the air. The _air_ —Sam can feel it.

For an instant, Sam’s skin is as close to his own as it’s been for years, and something is burning and Dean is here and there’s a light breeze. He can _see_ ; they are in the central avenue between the bungalows. A memory flickers; he went to summercamp once. Lucifer is making the croats and the demons kill the survivors and search for the other vessel. The other Sam.

There is no moonlight; instead there are fires and gore and death. Castiel’s body is lying broken on the cracked earth. Standing next to it is...

 _Dean_.

“You expect me to explain myself to you?” Lucifer says, gently disbelieving. He’s thinking about making Sam experience killing Dean with his own hands.

Oh no. Oh no, _no, no you have to run, Dean_.

Sam tries to lurch forward, to push for more control—and is shoved back with ease, swatted like a fly. Lucifer lets him keep watching, though; he probably thinks it’s a fitting punishment for Sam’s moment of daring.

Sam lets him keep thinking that even though Dean’s soot-stained face is the best thing that has happened to him in what feels like centuries. His brother stands strong and powerful, foolishly unafraid of his certain death in the midst of the raging battle that Lucifer is undoubtedly going to win. Dean is like a beacon in the night—the parts of his soul that remain gleam patchy gold in the firelight. He’s so beautiful the force of it dispels some of the arctic chill from Sam’s core, or whatever qualifies as Sam’s core now.

“I don’t really have time to chat, Dean. I have already told you that I am going to kill every person here if you don’t tell me where he is... is that what you want? More death on your hands, more... guilt?”

Sam thinks, but quietly so Lucifer won’t hear; _Dean. Dean, I never stopped loving you, not in all this time I’ve been trapped here._

“Is that a trick question?” Dean grunts, his voice shot, his eyes dark. “’Cause I don’t test very well—“

“You humans claim to value other lives as much as you do your own,” Lucifer states. He never uses Sam’s throat to shout or even raise his voice; and it’s especially notable now as his voice softens instead of sharpening.

 _Soft doesn’t mean safe, Dean_.

“I never understood how that works, evolutionarily speaking.” The Devil gazes out into the night sky with Sam’s eyes, briefly pondering his own words. His thoughts cycle through his consciousness like images being fast-forwarded at the speed of light; it starts with the usual reel of war, famine, natural disasters... and then suddenly the images are full of Sam—memories Lucifer extracted from Sam’s own mind, memories of Sam and Dean. “But then I suppose that only applies to you in regards to a _specific_ life, Dean. Proving selfishness wins out in the end, as you trade millions of souls for one... hairless ape.”

Lucifer was hoping Dean might just reveal the other-Sam’s location because he hasn’t been able to trace Sam’s presence since it winked out of existence, but he’s going to have to seek out the wards that are concealing his prize from him.

_Dean. I love you. Run, Dean._

Sam’s legs are utilised to walk towards Dean. Dean, who doesn’t walk away—who barely flinches at the sight of the Devil advancing on him even if the Devil is wearing his little brother’s face.

Sam fights harder than he ever has, terrified, warmed by his fear, desperate to save Dean again, to save Dean, he has to save—

“I’m afraid this is the thing that is finally going to break Sam’s soul for good,” Lucifer says, and he makes Sam’s voice sound regretful and his eyebrows slant with pity, like it’s an event he can’t help. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

_Dean. What’s left of me still loves you._

Dean stands tall and waits until Lucifer is right in front of him. Sam gives his furious, lonely battle every single thing he’s got. He doesn’t have much anymore, but he uses it against the frost, trying to break free.

_Dean, I love you. I can’t save you._

_Dean. Run._

 

\- 37 -

Lucifer is wearing a terribly white suit.

Even without a moon, with a sky that is only begining to consider greying into dawn, Lucifer’s suit glows on its own. The color is... unsettling to look at; it’s a white that evokes snow, bone, cocaine. Sickness. Anemia. Death.

Dean watches events unfold from behind a bungalow, his grip on the gun purely out of comfort because it’s about as useless as a slingshot right now. Castiel was already dead when he arrived, but future-Dean is still talking to the Devil.

A few stray demons seem to be hovering around the open area, but there are no croats in sight this side of the campsite. Dean’s hoping that the lack of _people_ is due to the perfectly executed escape plan drilled into the survivors’ brains, and not any other reason.

“I’m afraid this is the thing that is finally going to break Sam’s soul for good,” Lucifer is saying, and it’s obviously not Sammy (the posture, the gestures, the _eyes_ ) but at the same time... it hurts so bad to think Sam could still be somewhere in there. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

Future-Dean just stands there, staring the Devil in the face with the Colt held limply in his hand. He’s not going to go for the kill shot; if he was, Lucifer would have snapped his neck already.

Dean should be running back to defend the angel-proof cabin, but he can’t look away.

“Sammy,” future-Dean says. It comes out ragged, like the word is wrenched out of him.

Lucifer pauses, doesn’t move.

“Sammy, if you’re in there... I’m here, okay?”

“Your brother can’t hear you, Dean—“

“I’m here.” He raises his voice, and it sends a chill over Dean. He never, ever wants to feel whatever is making his counterpart sound like that. “And I’m not gonna leave you.”

“Well, I’m afraid this is proving to be a pointless—“

Lucifer stops talking abruptly.

Then he crumples to the ground, and it’s not Lucifer anymore; _it’s not Lucifer_.

Future-Dean drops after him like a stone, scrabbling to hold Sam up, to get him sitting and raise his head. Dean stumbles forward on autopilot, his body catching up faster than his mind and abandoning his questionable hiding place.

“Sam!” he calls, skidding to a halt when he reaches them.

“Sam, you’re okay, you’re okay...” Future-Dean is crying, cradling a shivering Sammy in his arms.

“I can’t...” Sam whispers, hand clutching future-Dean’s sleeve. “Can’t hold him for long...”

“You’re doing so well,” future-Dean chokes, hands trembling violently. “You’re doin’ perfect, Sammy... you’re perfect.”

Suddenly Dean feels like an unwanted intruder in the reunion, but he can’t help the momentous draw towards his hurt and injured brother. He hovers over them, uncertain, completely shattered by the way this Sammy skewers his internal compass; adds an extra pole. It’s _Sam_.

There’s a distant shout and then a pillar of black smoke erupts from one of the closest figures standing guard. The demons are beggining to notice something is off.

“Guys, this is—“

“Get back to the cabin. To him,” future-Dean says wetly, not looking away from Sam for one second. “Go. Time it right.”

“Time what—“

“Time it with dawn and go back. _Fix_ it, Dean.”

“I...”

“I’ll try to give you some time,” Sam says. He looks gaunt; tortured despite a lack of obvious scars, but he’s clinging to future-Dean’s green jacket with surprising force. “I... it won’t be much.” He winces apologetically and future-Dean chuckles breathily into his hair, kissing the top of Sam’s head desperately, grabbing him so hard he’s crumpling the terrifying white suit.

“S’okay. I’m here; I’ll stay here,” future-him murmurs, gentle to a painful degree. His voice is thick with tears. “Go now, Dean.”

Dean starts to back away, something in him ripping apart with every step he takes further from his brother.

“Dean, he’s going to kill you—“

“I know, I know Sammy, it’s okay. They’ll fix it. It’ll be like this never happened.”

“Detroit... I’m sorry I failed. I had to choose you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let him—“

“It’s okay, you were perfect, you’re perfect... you’re gonna be okay, I’m here...”

The demons let him pass; they don’t seem very interested in him given their leader’s sudden clocking out of the game. A black-eyed pregnant woman is the only one who half-heartedly tries to grab him but Dean dodges out of the way and forces himself to start running.

He only looks back once, before ducking between two bunkers that will the block the scene from view.

All he can make out are two figures huddled together at the center of a growing crowd of demons, and the unsettling glow of white. The sky is slowly lightening, just not fast enough.

Dean knows future-him is going to die and he knows future-him is perfectly aware of it, too, but the relief in his counterpart’s eyes had been pure. As if dying with Sam in his arms was more than he’d ever dared hope for.

 

\- 38 -

The demons leave first—some unspoken signal seems to draw them elsewhere. The croats are mindless; they don’t seem to follow the same rules, but their numbers are dwindling after renewed efforts from the group, thanks to Bobby and Risa’s thunderous passage through the fighting lines. The faraway sounds of battle have definitely faded, and there are no more chaotic screams in the distance.

That’s how Sam convinces the others to leave.

The lack of enemy combatants gives his companions a false sense of confidence in Sam’s ability to hold the cabin on his own; and he has help from their obvious desire to go take care of their fellow survivors. He shamelessly uses their emotional bonds with people whose status is unknown and it works on every single person except for Bobby, who refuses to leave him alone point blank.

Sam gives up on convincing the man when it becomes apparent that Bobby is just getting angrier instead of closer to changing his mind, and they each take one post within the cabin.

Specifically, Bobby took the door and Sam the window, so it’s Bobby who yells: “Dean!” first.

Sam is at his shoulder in seconds, never mind what’s happening beyond the distant tree-line.

The gray suggestion of dawn is enough for Sam to distinguish his brother’s form sprinting their way. Dean only runs past one croatoan victim and barely slows down to shoot him in the face before jumping over two nondescript bodies and careening towards the front of the cabin.

He finally stumbles to a stop while Bobby adeptly manouvers his chair out of the way and lets him in.

“Dean,” Sam gasps, and grabs the front of Dean’s shirt to—put his other arm around Dean’s shoulders and hug him.

A sudden rattle of machine-gun fire draws them apart.

Bobby puts down his weapon just as Sam catches three distant croats dropping to the ground in a bloody spatter.

“What happened?” Sam asks, desperate to know why Dean didn’t come back with Risa, the reason he’s been sick to his stomach not knowing whether his brother was alive.

Dean hesitates like he doesn’t know where to start, then turns to face Bobby.

“You have to go,” he says.

“I ain’t leaving you two alone,” Bobby replies flatly.

“Yeah you are. We need a favor, and we need you to go tell the others. Sam can’t leave the cabin, and I can’t...” he trails off but, for the first time in a long time, Sam is certain he knows the end of that sentence. It sends a lick of warmth up his spine.

“What favor?”

“We need a diversion. Lucifer is going to try and come for Sam—we need you guys to keep him occupied for as long as you can. Until the sun rises.”

Bobby looks from Dean to Sam, then shifts so his machine-gun is across his lap instead of braced against the back of his chair.

“You boys got yourselves a deal.” He sighs. “It was... real great to see you both. These past few years...” but they all know there’s no way to sum up what the past few years must have been like, and anyway they are running out of time.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam croaks. “For everything.”

Dean nods in agreement and hands the man a full belt loader.

Bobby doesn’t waste any more time before spinning around in a practiced move and rolling off into the grass. Sam spares a thought for the upper body strength he’s had to develop to manouver the caked, dry earth, but midway towards the rest of the bungalows Bobby spins in place and opens fire on another pair of croats without letting the kickback throw him off the chair—and Sam remembers the man is a certified badass.

As soon as Bobby is out of sight, however, Dean picks up the cabin door and pushes it crookedly back in its frame. Sam knows they basically have to sit and wait out the next few minutes but the feverish edge to Dean’s sudden mood makes him uneasy.

“Dean, what happened out there?”

But Dean silently marches up to him and grabs his face in both hands, tugging him down for a forceful kiss.

“ _Mh_ , D-Dean, wh—“

Dean just muffles a hurt noise into Sam’s mouth and kisses harder, eyes tightly closed like he’s trying to superimpose this feeling over a nightmare image Sam can’t see. His shoulders are shivering and the hands cradling Sam’s head are digging fingernails into his scalp.

Sam wraps both arms around Dean’s waist and crushes him to his chest, letting him have the moment even as a voice in the back of his head screams that their time is about to run out.

 

\- 39 -

Dean finally calms down when he registers the broad palm Sam is rubbing up and down his back, like he’s soothing a spooked horse.

“Sorry,” he grunts, pushing Sam away and wiping the back of his wrist over his mouth. He takes a dizzy step back. “Shit. Sorry, Sam.”

“It’s okay,” Sam murmurs. “Dean, tell me—“

“Future-me is dead.”

He chances a look at Sam’s face and quickly looks away again.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t see it happen but he’s as good as. I saw Lucifer.”

Sam blinks several times and simply nods, but doesn’t seem ready to speak yet.

“You should’a seen though... you overpowered him. The _Devil_ , Sammy. You were amazing, and you bought me enough time to get back to... well, you.”

And suddenly it feels like he needs to get it out; the rest of it, all the things he kept to himself during that fateful phonecall.

“When I said—Sammy that thing about us being weaker together—truth is I’m scared. Scared that _I_ am, and scared that you aren’t.”

He has to make Sam understand.

“’Cause there’s days when I think you’re the same and days when I—I don’t know. And you... you keep leavin’ me all the time, man.” Sam winces. “But I know _me_ , and I know what I’d do. Hell, you’ve seen what I become without you. If someone made me choose between you and the world... I already know the answer. And that’s really fucked up.”

He pauses, trying to find a better way of phrasing what he wants to convey. This was never what he was good at, and for all of Sam’s skill at weaving language to his advantage _he_ was never great at baring hurtful truths either.

“Okay, maybe ‘weaker’ is a shit way of saying it, but... it’s the truth.”

_Weak. You make me weak._

It _is_ the truth, but the hurt look on Sam’s face means Sam is taking it the wrong way—why do they always screw this part up? It’s not just him; the vehicle always fails them and the collateral damage gets amped up instead of toned down.

“I mean... I...”

They always end up... here.

Dean flounders, tyring to come up with the next step. What’s his next move, how does he express...?

Sam is the one who solves it first. The AP-graded, full-ride to Standford little shit Dean loves more than life itself figures out a way to solve their lifelong dilemma.

Between one moment and the next Sam is striding over to him and gripping the collar of Dean’s shirt like his life depends on it. For a second Dean even expects a punch or a shove that lands him on his ass.

“Dean,” Sam snarls. “ _Listen to me_.”

Only he doesn’t speak; he tugs Dean forward and kisses him.

Dean can barely keep up at first. Sam bites at his lips and sucks on his tongue and handles him however he wants, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist again and refusing to lean down so he’s forcing Dean to push up. Dean finds himself on his tip-toes to maintain the contact, balance completely lost. When Sam spreads a posessive hand over Dean’s ass and squeezes approvingly Dean braces his weight against Sam’s chest.

Dizzy and off-kilter, Dean anchors himself by sinking his hands into Sam’s hair. He winds it between his fingers and gentles the rhythm of their kiss; slowing Sam down. Sam responds after a few moments, deepening the kiss instead and matching Dean’s slower pace. The arm he’s got around Dean’s waist squeezes tighter, anchoring them together.

In their own way, the touches are a dialogue, and like tumblers falling into place... it clicks. Dean can’t believe this is really it; the missing piece. All this time, the anger and the fighting and the hurt... what they needed was another way, another means of communication that worked better than words.

This is better than words.

This is—

Suddenly Sam stops moving.

“Sam...?”

Sam pulls away and sets Dean back down on his heels, looking over Dean’s shoulder at the door. Dean didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel any—

Someone knocks three times, gently enough not to dislodge it.

 

\- 40 -

Sam can feel him.

There’s a draw and a repulsion Lucifer instills in him simultaneously—a dangerous allure that pulls him in and makes him nauseous at once.

He knows who is standing right outside and while he’s perfectly aware of the fact that the rickety door is purely there for show, he doesn’t want to open it. He doesn’t want to see his body being used as a puppet.

“The window,” Dean whispers.

“Dean, we can’t fit through—“

“No, no, _look_.”

Sam follows Dean’s pointed finger to the tentative light of dawn creeping into the cabin.

It’s been twenty-four hours since they got here. Zachariah might already be trying to pull them back into the past, and finding it strangely difficult for some reason.

“We need to get out so Zach can get to us,” Dean mutters.

“Right, and we need to stay inside so _Lucifer_ can’t get to us,” Sam whispers back, casting his eyes around for a stall, an impossible alternate way out.

“Talk about a catch-22.”

“He still needs my consent to use my body.” It’s their best shot and they both know it. “We can go outside together and I can stall him.”

A second, equally patient knock taps against the door.

They exchange a pointed look and Sam grabs his gun from the back of his jeans.

“No solicitors, thank you,” Dean calls out.

There’s silence for a long moment.

Then the door blasts open.

“Dean. Good to see you again.”

Sam has to fight hard to keep his cool, but Lucifer’s focus is on Dean first. It’s surprisingly easy not to see himself in the Devil; it’s certainly his body, his general shape, but... nothing else. Nothing that is _his_ , and especially not the bone-white suit Lucifer is wearing.

“I thought my little reunion before had an... echo.”

He stands tall and calm right at the edge of the invisible barrier created by the wards, just inches from being framed by the doorway. Sam’s blood sings when he’s near, he just can’t tell if his repulsion wins out.

“Yeah. I got there just in time to see Sammy kick your ass,” Dean says with relish.

Of course. Of course he antagonizes their most powerful enemy.

“Well, he’s gone now and so is his brother. You can join them soon, if you want. Or you can go back to your time. Sam is the only one I care about.”

“I will never say ‘yes’,” Sam grits out.

Of course, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on any of them.

Lucifer raises his eyebrows like he’s almost embarrassed for Sam. “Since I’m wearing the evidence to the contrary, we could just... skip this first part. It’s a little trite, you playing... hard-to-get.”

Dean looks disgusted. “Man, you’re something else.”

“Correct.” Lucifer raises a hand. He’s still confined to the outside by the wards, but the half-twist of his fingers as he beckons Sam to him is executed with grace. “Come out, come out...” he quotes, quiet.

Sam pretends to really, truly struggle with the notion before taking a step forward.

“Sammy, no.” Dean makes a show of trying to pull him back by his sleeve but lets him keep moving, step by shaky step.

“I’m still not saying yes,” Sam warns.

Lucifer nods, allowing it.

“You will,” he says. “You already have.”

Sam finally steps out into the sunlight—although using ‘sunlight’ to describe the pale glow of dawn struggling against the clouds might be a reach.

His own face smiles at him.

It’s not his smile, though.

“I think I finally understand the concept of _déjà vu_.”

There’s a grunt behind him and Sam whirls around just in time to see Dean get tossed up in the air.

“No—“ he breathes, because they need a bit more _time_. Why did he step out so soon, dammit Dean—

“Come on, Sam,” Lucifer prompts, hand raised in Dean’s direction. He’s keeping Sam’s brother afloat at least ten feet above the ground, and a bad fall could very well snap his neck. “Your next line is easy: you just agree. Anything other than that and I drop him.”

A shot goes off in the distance, and Sam gives it no more creedence because it could be a remnant of the battle he never saw. He’s trying to think his way out of this; to outsmart the Devil. Lucifer is seconds from killing Dean, how does he not say yes, how does he—

But then a second shot is fired, and a third, and then the incredibly loud rattle of a machine-gun sounds much closer than makes sense.

Next, an engine roars.

The giant truck that rescued them yesterday thunders into view, barely fitting between two bungalows to charge their way. Metal screeches against metal and sparks fly on its sides but it’s going to make it.

It’s them. Jo, Risa, Nate, Chuck... they came _back_. Bobby must have gotten them to come back.

Somehow knowing what’s about to happen, Sam rushes over to stand under Dean and sure enough, is there to cushion his fall when Lucifer unceremoniously lets him go to attend to the commotion.

“Fuck, _ow_ ,” Dean groans, but is very much alive and probably only broke a couple of Sam’s ribs on his way down. “Sammy—“

A figure appears over his shoulder.

Sam could cry with relief; it’s Zachariah. It literally took a village, but they are saved. They are _saved_.

It’s finally over.

“Good timing,” he gasps, looking up at the archangel gratefully. It may have felt like they are on opposing sides since he met these creatures, but he can’t deny what this rescue means. Still half on top of him, Dean twists around and claps his hands, punches the air in triumph.

“All _right_ ,” he crows, and braces a hand on Sam’s chest to get up—

“Let’s go, Dean,” Zachariah says, and before Sam has even had time to register what those words mean the archangel touches Dean’s forehead with two fingers and disappears right along with him.

The sudden absence of Dean’s weight on top of him leaves him disoriented at first, so he doesn’t quite process what just happened.

What...?

No.

No... “Dean.”

No, this can’t be happening. This can’t be it.

“Dean.”

Sam sits up, looking around like he’s going to see his brother again, or maybe like he’s hoping Zachariah is going to reappear and bring him back. This isn’t the end, this _can’t_ be it...

In the background, gunfire explodes around Lucifer but a simple flick of his fingers slows the individual pellets down to a patter, like gentle rain falling around him. Sam’s pretty sure the Matrix did it first.

“Dean!”

Was this Zachariah's plan all along? Trap Lucifer's vessel in the equivalent of another dimension? Why were they so sure he'd bring Sam back too--

An earth-shattering crash makes him jump, and he turns to watch the massive truck lurching to the air. It keeps falling forward in a timeless suspended moment... And then pinwheels to the side at a slight tilt of Lucifer’s head. The ground under Sam’s hands reverberates with the shock, and plumes of thick black smoke billow out from the engine, mixing with the white mist of morning. The windows burst and scattered glass like confetti into the air--

Sam can't see the bodies but he knows that in a single, brutal move Lucifer killed every last one of his allies.

“Dean...”

"Dean's far away, Sam. It's just us, now."

The suit sucks in the light of morning instead of reflecting it.

He can’t believe this is how it ends.

 

\- 41 -

Dean lands in his motel bed with a thud, and only barely manages not to throw up.

“Sammy,” he mutters instantly, disoriented as shit. “Sam.”

No answer.

“Sammy, hey.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust his vision and stop things from looking blurry. Still no response.

“Sam?”

Finally, his gaze settles and... and Sam’s not there.

A spike of panic causes his heartbeat to double in speed, but Dean tries to calm down. Maybe Sammy’s time-travel was delayed a little. Maybe Zach just took them one at a time.

He waits as long as he can possibly bear.

So, another seven seconds.

“Sam?” he calls, rushing up off the bed and starting to feel frantic. “Sam!”

“ _Man, shut up_!” someone calls from the next room over.

Okay, okay, Sam was driving—they spoke on the phone; Sam was elsewhere. Zachariah must have simply brought him back where he was before. Of course, that makes perfect sense.

It takes his shaking fingers several attempts to scroll past Cas’s phone to Sam’s last incoming call, and he only had to hit three keys in the correct order. Fuck.

Finally, he’s calling Sam and the dial tone is ringing, and it keeps on ringing and Sam isn’t picking up.

He waits it out until Sam’s phone jumps to voicemail and, completely out of it at this point, calls again and prays, prays in that vague nonspecific way to no entity in particular for Sam to be all right, please, Sam has to be back, he has to be safe. He drops his ass down on the bed again and calls a third time, stomach sinking.

Nobody answers Sam’s phone.

“Fuck,” he pants, and does the next thing he can think of.

He calls someone else.

“ _Where is he?_ ” he yells as greeting.

“Sam is untraceable,” Castiel answers. “Your ribcages, if you’ll recall—I’m sorry. I don’t know where to find him.”

“Well you better think of something in the next minute or I’m putting a bullet in my skull,” Dean snarls, and means it.

There’s a pause at the other end of the line, and then Castiel’s scratchy voice returns with added caution. “Dean... do not kill yourself.”

“Find Sam,” Dean counters, and hangs up the phone.

How does he contact Zachariah? The man found him somehow, there must be a way to—

The phone rings again and Dean snatches it up instantly.

“Dean,” it’s Castiel again. “I will not be able to locate Sam within the next minute, please, do not place a bullet inside your cranium, I think that might increase your chances of dying exponentially.”

Dean tosses the phone across the room in a violent move and stands up again, near-hyperventilating. Where is Sam, how could he lose him like this, just after finding him again and somehow finding him for the first time, how could this _happen_ —

He has to find him. He has to go look for him and he’ll kill Zachariah in the process if he must. He’s wanted to stab that douchebag in the face ever since he first met him.

He flings the door open and his heart stops.

Sam is standing right outside, hand raised to knock.

“Hey.”

Dean can’t even speak; he lets out a strangled groan and launches himself at Sam, kissing him to say ‘I can’t believe you’re here’, the arms around his neck a cry of ‘I’m never letting you go’.

Sam huffs laughter into his mouth and manages to get them inside the room, at least, and swing the door shut behind himself.

“D-Dean, hey, hey...” after getting a better look on Dean’s face Sam’s expression loses all levity, concern drawing his brows together and scrunching his nose. “Hey, Dean, it’s okay, I’m okay...”

He rubs his hands up and down Dean’s sides while Dean scans Sam’s eyes for any lingering hurt, any traces of pain or possession or anything at all.

“I thought he left you behind.” He pauses. “In front—in the future.”

Sam smiles nervously. “Yeah. I did too.”

Dean gulps in a huge breath.

“I thought you were gone, Sammy.”

 

\- 42 -

Sam’s still reeling with the relief from Zachariah’s last-minute appearance, but Dean’s reaction shoved his own emotions to the background. The look on his brother’s face had been furious, resolute and, for a second... the closest to future-Dean Sam had ever seen.

“I thought you were gone.”

Sam wants to say the words, but he can’t quite get them out.

So he kisses Dean instead. He bends down just a bit and gently, lovingly teases Dean’s mouth open, licking his lips and then his tongue. It’s deliberately soft, softer than comes naturally to him, because he wants to convey a very important message.

Love, family... It doesn’t matter what they call this thing they have between them.

 _Whatever it is_ , Sam tells Dean with his kisses, _I’m not leaving you ever again_.

Dean’s hands fly back up to sink into their preferred resting place in Sam’s hair, and he tugs at it to hold on. His whole body thrums with relief, with gratitude, with the hungry love Sam remembers basking in his whole life. It's perfect. It's beyond perfect. It's the kind of ending he'd never dreamed of even as a desperately lovestruck little kid.

They eventually fall into the bed, and forget about the world for the rest of the night.

Castiel’s phone runs out of minutes.

 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who followed this journey with me... And to those who patiently waited for the status to go from "WIP" to "Complete"! I had been wanting to write this story for a while, and at first hilariously thought it might even be a oneshot.
> 
> 30K later... Not so much :)
> 
> Love you all for reading, and as always feedback is cherished!

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote three little "missing scenes" on tumblr thanks to my lovely anons:
> 
> This one is about future!Dean checking out Sam's anti-posession tattoo: [Ficlet 1](http://defenestratocaster.tumblr.com/post/148335066010/omg-omg-ur-new-whatever-it-is-updates-have-killed)
> 
> This one is about what future!Dean whispers to Sam after Dean bursts in on them a second time: [Ficlet 2](http://defenestratocaster.tumblr.com/post/148386923865/u-r-a-med-student-a-med-student-with-nonstop-work)
> 
> This one is a deleted scene (rather than a 'missing one') set during Dean's killer-mode freakout after he finds Sam and future-Dean kissing in Chapter 3. I wanted Dean's epiphany to happen later so it had to be cut: [Part 1](http://defenestratocaster.tumblr.com/post/149239576770/its-been-weeks-and-i-still-dunno-how-am-i-gonna) [Part 2](http://defenestratocaster.tumblr.com/post/149239773115/whatever-it-is-deleted-scene-part-2)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! :)


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